cellogroupie

there's a drawing room hidden inside my right pinky. I go there sometimes when I can't sleep. I have found all I have to do is bring some peaches and imagine I have a red hat on and it will let me in. I realize that this is where I keep my poetry, and where I kept that poem I wrote in my dream, which I thought I had lost. It turns out it was bad, anyway, but it was dripping with honey so I licked it and stored it away under my left middle toe. that is my storage closet. my soul is located in the back of my right knee. I visit when I can and talk to it through high frequency brain waves when I can't sleep. it's nice, but very borin

Rehearsal.  Dance, and maybe bow. (and how!) Entrance the sycophants. Universal trance demands romance- subsequent shroud that deflects the crowd genuflects arrogant nod to God.  (Defiantly. Disquietly.) Membranes are broken. My black-wrapped legs, distract some pain unspoken thrown to dregs, notions of broken powder kegs. Soviet source of choreographed terminus "Exterminus?  So be it," laughed coarse and hoarse contorting marionette. Regret?

Welcome to winter Birches with their dusty white trunks their limbs stretching out like arms of anorexic girls Reaching out to grab me She is winter- She does not forgive Welcome to frost snow like a million parasites sucking hungrily at my body heat She does not watch- She does not blink In winter's eye, time is but a speck a snowflake fluttering to the ground and crashing into a million tiny pieces each one a new life but where every heart warms a life another piece of the snowflake melts