The Crab

Folder: 
2006

torn from tendon

the shell. a boat, a cradle, an ashtray

once i cut my palm

wide red open

the bubbles

tiny hills of adipose,

spilled out.

that is your back. yanked apart,

tiny teeth

on quivering layers of soft white inside

juices trickle; your soul escaping through fingertips.

Floating on her back

she devours you.

Grandfather.

The wheeze of the cigar.

Lips which breathed through the barrier of tobacco and 131 known carcinogens.



When the white bubbles appeared

the relevence of tomorrow

was abandoned like scattered newspages

on the sidewalk

your skin smelt of whiskey-soaked tips

until you were that thing which defined you.



He got up and left. A short glass, melted cubes and candy wrappers.

i stared hard at the door.

hoped that it would open again; knew

that it wouldn't.

Through the window

a little girl waved a thin plastic wand

and the messages she wrote

floated

up

to the sun.



The otter makes her den along the rocky shore.

i watch her run her pups, teach them to bob and fish.

The black silk scratches; catches on calloused skin. The fresh cut flowers

are nauseating.

i pick at the stiches on my palm and watch

my soul

fall

into the pot screaming

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