Dark Poetry Prose Poetry July 25, 2005 Dark Poetic Prose

7-25-05 monday 10:19pm

what words become those moments we relent. letting ourselves open. taking scapel to sternum and prying open the ribcage. to expose underneath what is always there, but never shows. to enlarge the very image of ourselves and reveal the intricate networks of tiny cells that compile the vast whole.

what only breathing does not grant there are other pursuits for. yielding at the intersection of your thoughts as time travels through.

death it becomes not a threat, but an entity. a spouse you take when you can find nothing else to love in the world.

and you lay down beside her feeling less alone than you did before she entered your bed.

and hope is just the method that the hopeless use to carry on. when there's no reason to anymore, they pretend there still is. flightless birds vainly flapping their wings. as they blame the ground instead of their inability.

mesh hearts filter the bigger pieces out. but the liquid pours through. dilluted lives stagger onward propping each other up as they wander. crutches for crutches that's what they are. as they wobble toward an emptiness they both fear so much in an effort to escape the empty they've come from.

07-25-05 monday 11pm

open end of the stem. while the blossom on the other side withers. beckons.

but end of the vein as the bandage flounders to absorb. to stop the leakage.

is it hard now. since the cement has dried. made those impressions permanent. that we should walk through our lives. our daily routines always stumbling across them. unable to avoid. unable to remove them without radical measures.

do i see alone what lay at our feet. so obvious. it seems so real to myself, but i'm not sure it is to anyone else.

those trenches so deep. especially when the rain begins to fall. to fill them up with. show their depths. i wonder what floats. and what drowns in them. and how long it will be until the debris fills them in.

how much hunger remains in this gut. before it all devours itself in the wants it has become.

how much of myself still functions under the skin that is my prison.

and should it ever be freed, how much damage it would do then.