4.13.2010

(Nuclear)

Songs of solitary
confinement
create a harmony in
suffocation of sense to
distract with or from the physical.


Heart says "Go!" but
head hesitates and a
dirty dance of delusive balance begins.


"This never ends well,"
the body chimes in with
muscle memory of the
meaning of life.


A corpus-chorus-line.
Feeling a bit like a puppet and
never the master,
asphyxiate with strings to
escape the proliferated penitiential practice.


Prolific writer, setting bombs, talks of body, never of arms.