tired_days lycanthrope and so her lips rested like a laborer does away from the sun against a tree that's been both their bareness The surplus, the runoff is taken away in trucks while he sleeps towards Tantalus, a capital city somewhere. his children longing for a plan with their eyes. But one more day it will take, living with "as if" under their pillows. as if tomorrow will take less of a toll. as if the trucks will stop coming and proclaim this pitstop the true kingdom. and so her lips rest. something in her eyes is like the revving of an impatient truck, waiting to carry suspicions into a vast multitude of kitchenettes and crisp fruit aisles with their manufactured lightning storms. And here the lightning storms are real. But we aren't so idle to dance to them. My words become official so far away from me. And we receive the runoff. Something in her mouth is a child's voice that says lets have a feast today and we'll starve tomorrow. The trucks can wait forever, we can consume their dissatisfaction. Our boundries so devastated that death is a peach we consume first at cautious dewey fizz and then past regret to a soft ridged into spilling. Your kiss is emptying the surplus Your kiss is the sin of a peach its sweetness untainted in it picked by the hand of a starving man. and sent away in trucks bouncing jubililantly like middle class kids on a road trip. and their parents are home preparing spaces on their walls for degrees, a long line of ballet lessons, never taken too seriously and now this. your lips, offering the rare trade of places,a word never meaning here. how can i be so frivolous to know in mind that the world is vast and yet to feel satisfied to erasure with the straining gateway of lips. Starvation is pillow talk. Untill i'm gone. Untill i see how blind i was going through the world, edging corners with my lips. and when socrates drank the poison down - was the liquid sweet? what were his last thoughts on truth then? did he compromise and die? a real hand now forgotten crushed the poison from those berries as a sort of thrown away legacy. and i'm not supposed to want these things. it seems living beyond my means to let your lips disfigure the round world of been and been again to corners unrelenting in their obscurities. where are the tired days i promised somewhere though i cannot remember where? the children of the world depend on me to tell them what a peach means. to tell them how it is different than a kiss. and i've forgotten. 020727 ... phil today 020729 what's it to you? who go blather from