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Description
I am the collector of thin wire fingers,
of girls whose memories are flattened
in two-dimensional heads. Skin converges over their
fish eyes and I sing harmonies of disgust for the seed of men.

I am from the fourth cliff, the bridge of
God's nose, the sculpture eroded by the carassing tongue
of youth. Beauties shooting up fear into their
eye membranes until Heaven is a distraction
brushed off like dead skin, it is discarded for something
better.

I am the ghost of a robot,
with paws and claws I stand on my hind legs
and wonder where the other legs have gone
and when these hands have appeared
and how to use them.

Autumn leaves crunch in my ears though it is July
and the smell of chinese fire crashes through flesh,
empty hungry soil. This harmless story Smashes winter's skull
beneath my feet that cannot feel a thing
and so take the tunnel of the sun when it is overriden by the moon,
just an inkblot, an imperfection on the face of a woman
wrapped in blankets who calls herself the Sky.

and if you wring me out i will be
white.