It's Wednesday night and I'm looking at a blank screen.

After a long hard day of biting the tip of a double barrel,

I subside onto the cushions of my black leather couch.

I'm expecting the company of good thoughts tonight.

They should be here any minute now. Well, who am I kidding?

They're usually late, but better late than never.

I begin to gather the sentences that have collapsed into letters on the floor.

These are the sentences that lacked proper nourishment to keep them afloat.

Nourishment that I failed to give while preparing for my voyage to nowhere.

As I tend to the matter at hand my own hands begin to harden like concrete,

My eyes begin to bleed creating an endless flow of tainted images.

I mustn't let company stand witness to this unsightly catastrophe.

I reach for a mop when it crumbles into an army of roaches.

I panic and begin to tear off yards of skin to wipe the mess.

The barks of a landlord play over into one ear and come out the other.

Just as I was about to wipe the last drop clean off the ground,

the weight of my hands proved to be too much as I create a hole and fall through a couple of floors.

Through all the rubble and roaches I find that I've landed in a brothel full of temptresses.

It's just like I said before, better late than never.



© Erik Duarte 2006

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