Monday, October 25, 2010


I can't admit to meeting Luck. Never saw her face in the flood of damsels. Black, blond, purple hair skipping across a city of aquatic graves. I'm dry but still soaked to the yearning bone. My hands stained from scavenging in troughs filled with atria and ventricles. They were out of key to the symphony of an ashen psyche. Every beat is stuck to me like filth. The flower voices, galaxy eyes, jaguar bodies. The peaceful yearnings that project home movies on storm clouds. I've placed them all next to me in bed where dozens of attempts have slept and slipped through my arms. I am lucky.

1 comment:

  1. Luck is a whore and I mean that in the most complimentary way possible.