Succulent Batteries

China chips at a touch in this no woman’s land of despicable hungers. In the parlor, Good and Evil spurning their tools of trade. This text is a flashlight in a dark, resentful woods. This text is  a bridge between the two factions of my consciousness. This text is an apology to the blue underside of memory. On the river, the dead decay loudly. But here in the house I give birth to baby’s breath. Good smokes pungent herbs on my back porch telling stories of his youth in New England. Evil sucks the juice from my most succulent batteries. Everywhere satisfaction is missing.