a face like stone
etched by wind, a road flare,
and several bottles of whiskey
cannot dim the torches burning
behind cosmos-colored eyes.

he picks up a glass
filled no doubt with accelerate,
the kind that combusts
with dragon's breath,
and sniffing it,
that face puckers for a brief second
before a dry mouth consumes it all into the belly.

i could tear out your heart,
he mutters.
but no one ever listens to mumbling
in the corner. unless it's accompanied
by action:
a fist jabbing into the soul,
grasping the straw of the large intestine,
and lighting it ablaze with just his looking.

01/19/2010

Posted on 01/19/2010
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