Poetry:

ALEX MACK

Antique
hiding from the tortured things that fall
into my footprints
and linger there for a taste
of something they think is beautiful
built in smooth porcelain,
cool to the touch:
a hallowed, hollow home for
the undignified

My Lover
there is something infinite about the way she moves.
  as if each choice is her destiny.
she flows into them like waves.
   crashing on the shores of strangers.
lasting in brief burst of chaos
              only to pull back into
the comfort of her own loneliness.

Insomnia
my 2 a.m. Death splinter
eyes strung open towards the glass & the whisper of a moan
in the bedroom corner
                          drinking in the night picture, framed
                          tree petals, sticky with fog –
                          a              p   la    ster   ed window mosaic
                          sticky with smoke
                                 the pencil hums - numbs fingers
                                         twiddling against the acid quiet

blank.     blank.      blank.

deep breath.
  naked lighter
    shaking fingers
      rotting breath
        ash coated tongues (eyes open)
          lapping at a fix. who is she?
            when did she become
              mine?

the Coffee ring around the inside of my mug
sitting desperate &
Stale; cold with neglect
                         as the pile of lace & flesh without a name
reinforces this banal guise.
                         trite with the comprehension
  that we are ephemeral;              her heaving breath against the glass
& the way my fingers dance
stumbling until Fate cuts these cruel strings.

                                                (Snip.)
Click.
static mumbles.
television splinter.