Bare Hands in the Shale

Dreams in thaumaturgic tidal waves undulating
in the overflow of knitted kinetic pushing
against a hollow heart beat.
Tick. Tick.

I am here for my destruction
I am unbecome in my decision

Cut away the rot;
only for it to re-emerge.
Ruined rhinestone finger-tips,
The massacre of nerve-endings.

There was no cents in this.
By penny, by dime, by quarter, et cetera and so forth.
All are damned in monthly payments,
until the undamning
rising event horizon.

(For now I'll even burrow into the gray ground
for this crude cognizance.)
hemmorhaging money from the tips of chitin;
half-blood stains in prints;

Bare hands in the shale.



[22:41|26.12.011] ©c.thomas.carter