Radio Pure

23 02 2008

Figuratively, the lines lead nowhere. They start and stop and leap from the page,
they are spindly, straight, and black.
They jump up together to form barriers, protective and opaque films.

One breaks off and slithers off to a violin,
it becomes the strings, the bow,
it stutters and bends and becomes the notes and squeezes in your left ear;
you vomit it out your
red, juicy red mouth.

Figuratively, she sits alone, probably by the water, naked,
illuminated by the blue-gray moonlight. Her hair cascades
down her back (it is heavy, too cumbersome, like the adjective, it hangs like a poorly delivered joke or bad poetry, too descriptive, a hassle). The light makes shadows in the groove
of her spine, makes a halo that hugs the curve of her hips.

You inhale shakily, you fall forward, into the water with a small splash.
Words tumble and writhe and press against your skull and it happens in reverse and the wall is torn and
then there is




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