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Re: and
p
a living machine
feed us our dreams
as the bottle opens and hisses
that mysterious white mist
am i the only one who sees it?
it's like my little secret,
and also, i don't want anyone to ever tell me
that they've seen it, too
or tell me that my dreams are fetched far
because, perhaps they are
they could tell me
that mist is just compressed steam
condensing in reaction to the cold air
and they could tell me
that signs are meaningless
that things we take as a guiding light
are just dying fireflies in the night
they could tell me those things
but i would never believe
because without hope,
life is nothing but dreams.
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white tulip when?
you gave me a white tulip, make it true
the first and very final "i love you"
that your fragile hands make my sole reprieve
from an idle recount of history
that great things worth all their weight in pure gold
will no longer impart greed on our souls
yet doubt becomes me even further still
that these things been blessed may not be things willed
with the scientific minds in the world
that insist that mucus makes up a pearl
force thoughts of doubt of things in store for me
make me believe these things never shall be
oh, that you may prove these shallow thoughts wrong!
that whippoorwill sorrow turn into song!
lest times before mirror times yet to come
and lonely digits fail to make a sum
for we know few things to be always true
that the sun is yellow, and never blue
and that when those together come alive
we know two and two always equals five.
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prehistoric sex
Pink pontiac lover
In fine time
Withdraws to leave a shattered window
The numbers, in unmemorizable combinations
Leave before they ever came
As a half cigarette still lit
Flies out the car window
And scatters dying red sparks into the air
That will never be seen again
Your armchair rhetoric, your bludgeoning cane
As your twinkle toes cream themselves all over your new Mohawk carpet
What did you say you were?
The stains around your mouth distracted me
I'm sorry, I must have missed it.
Come again?
Penny rolling across the floor
Out of the ears comes another mouth
And little, little fungi peel back the zest
On the orange never ate on the table never used
Fuck the drive-by, as the blood red taillights streak across your photo
As a perfect little heaven for all those who deserve it
Freshly mown grass thrown on the crunchy crunchy pile on the erased
FIngertips glide across the colours you used to own
Thinking of a deep voice
Dressed like a man
That beauty masqued but it was worth a laugh
Never regretted knees against the asbestos walls
Hearing that tone and waiting for the words to start sinking in
And hoping, and hoping, and hoping
That this flame will never go out.
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