Monday, March 19, 2012


His smile
wasn't the sort of thing
you wanted to mess with
when it crawled over his face
and pulled the corners of his mouth
down like pincers
crab mean and splintered

It sort of went slack behind the eyes
and reminded you
of the fetal pigs
you used to dissect,
pulling their slick webbed bodies
up out of the formaldehyde
and slapping them
wet on the glass

And when he whistled
you could see the end of the world
flicking off his lips,
with cigarette smoke curling up,
beading the blue of your night
with the sweet taint
of asphyxiation.

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