Oooh. Fun.

Tableau of Sevens

How histrionic,
how fin de siecle that
Irony should be our master!

I am living in this paradox,
this hiatus -
the last fortress of youth
crumbles like the crust of
the last sweet cobbler sloshing in
Christ's mouth.

I am not only living it,
but I am it. I am
I am I am a paradox,
a pair of dice in paradise.
I rolled a seven, how about you?

I like to watch the fast-forward button
reduce life into geometric points
on a plane, shadows at a discotheque.
You want the lover you don't have to love,
yes, but what about the lover that loves no one?
What about poor Lilith at the altar, the pyre,
denied entrance to paradise, the paradox?

What about unused punctuation marks?
Oh, lament, la muerta is here
to claim the unshed pounds,
the grapefruit halves uneaten.
Lilith outside Paradise -
I, outside, rolling my pair of dice.

Peach dribbles down Christ's chin
as he laughs at this montage.
(He does not weep; he is no pallbearer.)

How ironic, then,
that rigor mortis claims radio waves
and geometric planes,
and I am coordinates and lyrics -
we are all lost.

Wow, and the lines can actually be grouped into sevens O_o. [rants about probability for awhile, then runs away]