Thinking about him
turned a sentimental valve,
and she poured emotions
like rain onto the sidewalk
leaving stain-soaked refrains
of enmity;
slippery puddles
for him to traverse.


He was an entity to despise,
and she swore he would never cross
another line.
But it was too late,
she had been lacerated
for the first, most painful, time.


I talked to her
just the other night
when she was in a flight
of booze and narcotics;
the exotic sky
that only exists
when we're ready to die anyway.


And she would limply rock back and forth
on the porch bench
as if nothing mattered,

tenderly cooing:


      "We're all just counting time
      until we get shattered.
      Six billion walking piñatas;
      so sweet,
      til they're battered."



View grahf's Full Portfolio