Saturday, March 15, 2008

Prose Fry

I couldn't believe it was real.
When first all my little hairs on
my arms
and legs
and self
started dancing.
Grabbing eachother
and pushing away,
making my skin boil red and speckled
flesh. In turn exciting my veins to go
writhing and vining with me.
Never entangling
but occasionally rubbing;
all slithering into the trunk of me where the
color dye of my shirt appears to have bled
onto my skin.

"Would you look for chrissakes my
chest is all fucking plaid!"

My friend says, "Its just bad medicine.
You are very sick. Go lay down."

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