Empty

What can a word hold?

Akin to some invisible thread holding together names like birds incubating broken eggs,

decades have passed. That's where we were back then. King Mattress in an accord, with a fool, a clown, and self emptying liquor bottles, nobody else.

Trench coat for a blanket in a lawn chair under a bridge. Candles in pattern punctuated aluminum cans suspended beneath the rain. Tire swings and a mural of a black octopus on a concrete wall sucking up cans of paint pouring a dark sea beneath a little boat.

What can a word hold?

Not your hands, it is stifled when fingers give way under your teeth,

No water, or sand, or rice. Not even a grain of salt, nor a flake of powdered sugar.

yet. somehow.

syllogism and syntactical synonyms pale in comparison to the sound of snow falling.

Cold numbs the jaw, like Novocain, I have watched the horizon fall from the face of the earth and seen heaven in dancing ribbons cast down from the stars. Dreams of drowning, wake suffocating to find myself scuba-diving through a down blanket to a cup full of air. I remember the death of myself. He was hung with a seatbelt on a dirt road.

There is no going back right?

saliva coated lust in the front seat.

smothered with flesh.

disgusting conditions,

filthy mindsets,

toxic sex,

fucking animals.

screams and moans, impregnated with slaked thirst.

The language of tongues forgotten.

the feel of sweat dripping and aching internally.

But a word... A word is empty.