Pomegranate

Listen close: I'm transmitting. Whispering.

("Peanut butter pussy..." she huskily utters.)

Jet black tripping at 7a.m. Candy girl flailing the cold air with squeaky nunchucks. Each damp thud: wood against frying bare back. Cursing the sun's ugly mug, like every good vampire should. Aching like a comedian. We spend our time playing at it. Spinning our knobby tires in the dirt.

Right now, I'm don't know what to say: it's all the same? It's not-- it just isn't. I'm still trying to qualify for the grand prize. Your full lips smiling in the dark back bedroom. Like the Moon-- Alone Late at Night. Aching like a comedian. Fighting off Ginseng with an orange plastic squirt gun, his area comprised of gray couch arms and the foot of a broken spring mattress. Having words, man to cat.

Words require more than needing. Building up, then fade away, away... away, fade away. "What?" punctuating drags between cigarettes. Bending stiffly to touch the ashy carpet. This is your home. This is our ashtray. We are our own best memory. Tender fingers bend in the midst of poetic garble.

In the closed arms of night, which moment is Felix?