Wednesday, April 27, 2011


Excess water.  Soaking cloths stacked.  Stacked and pressed.  Hands pressing.  Hands clinging to cloth.  Lips so vice-like in their grip of the useless.  The useless words unemployed yet again.  Yet again.  Yet again useless.  Lips so vice-like.  Lips closed like doors aging beyond memory.  Nameless. 

Your breasts feel so non-existent.  Isn't that a trip?  Your chest is so empty.  That is really something.  Creepy.  Actually nothing.  Not even hollow.  Like your body is quietly collapsing into the air.  No boundaries.  No space within you or outside you.  What's holding up your mind, though?  No pulse but thinning thoughts.  Dissolving down to the tiniest chemical transmissions.  Drying.  Cranial crust. 

Crust gently brushed.  Brushed by the slightest scent of flowers.  What flowers?  Right there.  The petals are scraping your stark irises.  Behave.  Beehive.  Buzz.  Honey around.  Honey.  Lips so vice-like.  Piano.  Don't.  More teeth pressing into the lips.  Cutting.  Tongue licking blood inside the aging doors.  Shut in.  Behave.  Stark irises.  Once raving inside.  Behave.  Don't.  Blackened by feathers dried of their paint.  Stiff and metallic feathers.  His hair.  Don't.  Knuckles.  Fingernails.  Useless.  Relinquishing.  Licking blood inside the aging doors.  Shut in.  Behave.

Petals.  Easy.  Knuckles loosening.  Can.  OK.  Moving.  Muscle unknotting.  Palms around the tulips.  Excess water soaking the cloths stacked.  Cloths stacked on the dresser by the window.  Night time.  Bed.  Don't.  Too big.  Don't.  Back.  Back to the tulips.  You can.  OK.  Palms rubbing against the petals.  Don't.  Tingling in the fingerprints.  Don't.  Lips vice-like.  Licking blood inside the aging doors. Don't.  Don't rub.  You can.  OK.  Clutch.  Clutch the petals.  Knuckles.  Knuckles tightening.  Petals.  Ripping.  Don't.  Stop.  Lips vice-like.  Aging doors shutting in.  Don't.  Don't stop ripping petals.  You're clutching and clinging.  After relinquishing.  Knuckles.  Cracking.  Ripping petals.  Yes.  You do that.  Cling to the tulips.  The tulips.

- Max Stoltenberg

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