Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Splatter Control.

A chest cavity like an attic with fingers creeping through the eaves:  surgeons prying.  The tips are bats and the ribs are slats, you open the cellar door, the surprise is blinding as one flies through.  In the ceiling there is a creaking, each tone groaning and done with the inside even before reaching the outside.  Down below the family debates the spin of the earth, throwing out the steamy trash.  The rest is all lost.  The rest was ill deserved.  Your rest is ruined.  Sleep up there real nice, keep the smoke roiling out the chimney all wrong.  String up words upon the mantle; they sway upon the inanity like paper lanterns.  They're put up to sympathize with the left and the right that hates.  Your hands interlace to replace the ribs.  No more protection, no more hiding:  the darkness shrouds the writhing heart, staining the slats with ignorance and cheat:  It keeps the beat.  An orchestra appears, curbside melodramatic, releasing violin sobs as the structure tears itself down.  This probably shouldn't have been built up so passionately.  The funding should have dried up long before the first flood blooms erupted in the plaster.  Do not tear it down because it is wrong.  Do it because it will make you weep sweat.

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