OrchardYour fingers are guillotines,purely purposeful machines.You pluck the apple,and carve it clean,find the core,suck out the seeds.Take a lifeand taste the power,it's arsenic and sugar sweet.You thank God and the devilwith a crooked smilethat the day is young,and so are they,and just ripe enoughfor you to eat.
insomniacinsomniacs' hearts are not likeyours:they do not amble aimlesslyinto the many-chamberedcarcasses of sleep:each miniature death iswilless and druggedas a real one.she lies, buttoned andsterile,in white flanneland Benzodiazepine;see the small break in moonlightwhere her hand,fluttering and helplessas a bird,dangles in the dark.imagine the streaming veins, countthe blisters—swallow twenty milligrams ofsleep in a plastic capsule,fleshy and pink asfingers,as tongues.Are you one of us?Are you one of us?Are you—
Sta.sh
