#3

sherry poured out. her heart, late into the night, finally let her open up without recoiling. circling the drain of pain inscribed where love once was thought to reside, these hissing imps prod forward toward a goal never realized, multiplying as insect eyes the angles of reproach neatly focused on the foundations of the abyss. the acuity of it all burned flesh smooth with scar tissue, enough to singe new nerves. a swerve around subjects peek-a-booing too crassly to earn a livable wage on stage and we find new ways of desecrating the profaned. unguent resentment, show the way. tenon without place, eager to waste whatever’s available, uncertain bile extrusions be damned. a bit of luck, here come six chorus girls, wearing feathers, bringing to mind delicious places to hide. consigning away to whom or what is never clear but it’s done all the same, the effective negation of ritual stylized into the very air. what metaphor? careening farther than night could allow, the reign of cronos unfolding in precision engineered psychologies bound by nothing but their chains. a little longer now, only a few moments more, scheherazade’s gambit reduced to the synapses between syllables. expecting relief? it is tension here, no catharsis. the mark was never sighted. weave quickly! thread measured and cut reminds that this is unrenewable, not valid at select times. intertwining dissolves and strengthens, lest left unloved.