Verity does not have a problem
with dead people; in fact
some of her best friends
are dead. She often dreams
of sleeping with them, a remedy
prescribed to kill the conception
that she would be better off alive.

Too young to rock
yet too old to cry,
she rolls with the paunches,
self-satisfied flesh
that sweats the rhetoric
of fuck and fame, the slip
of names barely worth dropping
in the cold night of day.

Verity was found face down
in a pile of poems written
by numbers. Incontinent,
the Sisters of Merde sat
in deliberation, passing time,
praying for the inevitable.

In retrospect
disease penned the book
in which Verity finds comfort.

07/03/2009

Posted on 07/03/2009
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