Monday, January 16, 2006

i don't know you but your dress would fit me


black backdrop and caustic white ceilings
dripping life from the bowels of misinformation
step back to find the pile of children's shoes all marked ked
and find a man playing a piano constructed of bones and veins and skin flakes
the wires are fine silk
and from the hallway to the fire place you can watch them force a dance from the entangled
i don't want it
i don't need it
but if we both know that our words shrink wrapped in subtleties
hold more than an ounce of truth
then imagination is no longer alone
and if in assumption i've crossed the wrong wires then
cut all but the blue one of the whole place could blow

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