The Naked Prayerbook
"On a skyline-scratched balcony, a feather-haired girl looks at the sky like a starling in a shoebox. Her eyes are afterthoughts, like decorative buttons on a cheap suit. The iron-oxidized bird-feeder hanging overhead sings along with the wind-whistle. She thumbs the pale ring of second-finger skin from her third calloused marriage, and waits with wine for her captain of light mourning."
Cover art by Philip Tinkler
Published Halloween 2013
65 pages
"The girls wander around tinsel-pretty in a December-less town.
Apple-bites snake a bonnie symmetry under their collars as they hang onto
each other in a drunken giggle of Spanish moss. The night is a venom jacket
thrown over the unmade bed of America. I avert my personality from my face.
The party is in stage IV remission."
"She asks if I still write. I tell her writer's block is when you live a
lie and can no longer lie of lives. I'd die inside my sentences. I load up
and shoot the explanation of how I only write my feel-guts in the hope I
don't take the Hemingway out, but our pin-drop conversation makes no point.
I turn up the Alcohol Volume and hear only teeth to glass as she drinks my
ill-feelings as an aperitif before gorging on my senseless humor."
"I twist my tongue into a fetal position. Words can only wound this moment.
I run my fingertips through her long and conditioned thoughts to revel
beside her aromatic and slide inside dragonfly-shaded summer drinks drank
above flora and fornicate we fly under Icarus wing and nimbus nine to allow
latitude a lax attitude coloring a curl-toe inside outlines of dead yellow
grass."
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