Icarus's blog: "Augurs, Martyrs, and Agnostics"

Sometimes you have to pull stuff out of your arm...
The knife was clean, the sink was filthy.
I could hear a slide guitar in the background.
And I started to squeeze.

I think this is supposed to hurt.
So I complain, I whince, I grimace, I yelp.

There's a tiny redhead that wags her tail when she looks at me.
Painted on jeans, twiggy and fragile.
I wouldn't mind, but I try not to invite.
Talk. Favor. Advise.
Wonder what she thinks of battered condom wrappers,
and novelty boxers,
and men rapidly approaching thirty.

I think I'm supposed to be happy
so I smile, I laugh, I bump, I lean, step closer by step.

Sometimes we rest in long, ornate boxes.
The suit was clean, the body was empty.
I could hear a slide guitar in the background...

I think this is supposed to hurt,
but nothing comes out.

No matter how hard I squeeze.

She told me she loves me.
In a blindside without sex, jewelry, or tragedy.
I wouldn't mind.
I wish it had been the first time
so I could trust
plunge
succumb.

I think I'm supposed to be happy...