Friday, February 12, 2010

On writing

I ripped the guts out of a poem and handed the bloody mess to flash fiction.

I kicked the baby out so I could remember my dreams.

I stabbed you in the neck so I could use your vest as parchment.

You'll show up in the bloody mess but won't recognize yourself for botox.

The baby'll come crawling back like those babies always do.

The vest'll remember nothing except the 70s and cocaine.

The vest'll save the last dance or something else cliche.

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