Tuesday, March 3, 2009


its futile
the way wounded archers shoot their arrows
at the drunken moon
the night devours those who devour themselves
and the rest turn and toss
in their pillows of green desire

these days roses shout their names
these days faces are made of newspapers
and everyone wears a necklace of tongues
only tongues are blind
blind as the chrome of dessicated desires

those who climb the rainbow
eat red and the shiver of vertigos
out of the same plate of sky
as wounded urchins

all the dawns curl up inside themselves
when snakes melt away from bodies
everything false
everything falls

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