As the Poet rests his head on a chain-mail sofa...

Author: colorofmydeath

Date: January 28, 2003

by colorofmydeath
1-28-03
A Shakespearean encounter...
Taking turns to try the wheel, our knuckles grow bloody with the exertion of centrifigul force.
Jelly that seeps between these fingers tells the story of my vision, removed.
...ruined by the dawn breaking on the "shallow end".
Seered by iron-on collectivism, these ends split by days.
To be: lie within the rows of bottles, light glimmering on curves accentuated by push-up cutlery.
Transportation syndicates and eye shadow rule the earth with an iron fornification.
do you know where the women's room is?
not to be: fourteen yards down the hall, the carpet sceams through heel-spin manuevers... whats "on the left" can still be seen with the naked eye.