A breeze is a word for a soul being sucked from one body to another.
It's the tingle between two people in an elevator with no air conditioning,
electrics sparking between two images torn between obscene and art.

My hand goes numb when I think of God as the reason I met you today.
Your golden shine is a funky line
between bad poetry and melting words.
My words are like the margarine stick in a bowl in the microwave after a few minutes of radiation. I pour over you
because of my habit of clogging arteries.

if I were a romantic I'd be more wooing.
I'm a post modernist.

My art is splicing genes and disappearing chairs.
My love is death to idols and the birth of nothingness.

I don't want to make you mine, or have your children. I don't want to marry you and share in happy times for the rest of our bitter days. I'm not that cynical.

I'd rather deconstruct you.

06/30/2006

Posted on 06/30/2006
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