3/2/02

this desire is an echoe
that lost it's voice inside seething boxes
trapped among suctioning dumpsters painted like vacation fantasies
enticing me to elaborate vacancy
a guilded nothing
that my grip can almost grasp when I pantomime the vague shapes
of my dreams
with my fingers
the object within me forever approaching reality
creeping closer and closer to material infinity
but never achieving it
still something inside me
promises an impossible rose

I feel the friction within
warm and irritating
when my soul, discontent with my flesh, craves its own special latex

a strange ritual it is
when I mourn the absence
of a flower
that was never there to begin with