Wednesday, April 16, 2008


In crisp silence there came starlight
wearing the bedsheets of my sin

we tumbled drunk into fashionable doilies

she clamored the throes of existentialism
put poxes on peas in mattresses
with just enough irony
to make my face crack at the corners

and we rolled spectacularly in harvest moonlight and
broken beer bottles

albeit the glass was sharp
and the moon burned our backs

we coddled the Devil into a deal
knowing one of us was going
to get one over on the other

or so I’m told …
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rumor by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

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