In a circle full of moisture and baked apple pie’s, I crave and hold the periphery of Words like a sullen extension of truth. A point of solitude. I rub my skin to find the unsaid, undiscovered words, I rub my iris, my white thighs like a fiction produced by swallowing catharsis.

                  Discover.  Run.  Run in your stockings. Run in your shoes. Find the haze. Catch the molecules.  Choke on the existence of  W O R D S.   Seduction.  Dedication.                   Sanctification.  I don’t want to be alive, for I am soiled and drunk. I am married to the drops of inebriation of pale figure.

   Magic.

Drop by drop I bleed poetry and imbricate the words on my yellow walls, on the roofs of my cracking teeth.  Bites of cold potato shiver me…