Poverty's Angels.
wreckless.
no one is less a man than a cadaver, high on good guy philosophy. too much for me.
white wash.
there is a room w/ no walls. there is no room.
Pandora; show me that your box isn’t purely decorative. i’ll show you that my brain,
indeed, is figurative.
scratching. i hear scratching from inside!
a rat? no!
a cat? no!
a eunichorn? most definitely!
no loyalty in that box. no lithium to be had.
strange fish flopping ’round w/ bovine skulls, in a christian world, sad.
how much buddha is too much buddha?
i see him reclined in my father’s chair, uncharacteristically somber— masturbating into a
flower.
i turn inside out, away.
distant.
children skipping rope in silhouette, gunk on their faces.
no spittle for the kleenex; mothers w/ dry mouths, eating corporate odour.
Brand New Century, Half The Fat!
innovative contraceptives administered at birth; a layer of crazy glue, a surgical glove,
another layer of glue and then we send them off to play in the sand.
Crazy.
an asian man is laughing horizontal naked, an “Hello! My Name Is:” pin attached through
his nipple.
his name is Tex.
An asian man named Tex.
there are constant shortages; money, laughter, tenderness... the cracks in my kitchen are
filled w/ poetry.
we take solace in each other; minds, bodies.
trade our youths for bread, drink from lacerated palms.
i look to find no windows; only one immaculate door, located on the ceiling, and i’ve no
ladder.
Poverty’s angels must not fall, must not die at the hands of their own good graces.
down here.
we promise ourselves forever not to be sickened by our own fears.
only the shadows that they cast.
Copyright © Eric Delmer Millen | Year Posted 2007
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