Poetry
The Artist Formerly Known as Trish
Flat Feet Follow
I'll tell you everything,
all my lies.
Truths that have no destination.
Fingers reeking of cigarettes,
maybe the next one will spawn the answer.
Or some beginning.
I can feel you staring at my back.
Cupid's pocket-knife,
whittling at my cunt.
Naked hands on my hips.
A sea of pink.
The hours descend like lifetimes,
whole generations passing by.
Prompting the days with or without your skin.
This poem appeared in Church on Thursday, Issue #10, October 2003.
