Her electric shark bites with a loving sort of pain.


The Ghost in the Machine.

His inkblots look like dead bodies in the diagram of a sandcastle.

There is something painfully sterile
About the way she dreams in black and white
Of rugged coastline and breathing saltwater,
And how she never thought to tell the doctor how
Her one true love tastes like mint

She's doesn't want to be labeled as a system error.

She likes broken seashells
And mindless people wiped clean, like so much
Magnetized hardware with blood pounding through their
Cables, plugged into her organs.
She feels them pulsing, wanting,
Ghosts in her machine.

She shuts off their power and never tells.

If she were to hold herself to her ear,
She thinks she would hear the ocean tremble
While the human is torn apart by the shark
and bystanders on shore film for posterity.

She's afraid of getting blood on her doctor's notes.




Poetry by Inked.
Read 614 times
Written on 2005-11-01 at 04:49

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penfold18
Great usage conjures all sorts of images, well done.
2005-11-01