turns,
budding shoots,
no, not a turnip
the arms of the breeze
my old fan rotating
in the hum
fandango
thunder bolt and lightning
the ideas are more important than the things
i could not bring myself along
the pines
and the hunk of meat
the pink turning grey
a fucking tiger
sweet, are you still?
to justify their reality
i would not call them cautious
the livig still vibrate
behind the walls
and you wanted your words to embody your convictions
strange pictures on these walls
shouting and stamping
mechanical assisted
the damsel in distress calls and I must go
off to write your death in stone
pin cushions
rosettes
Did I see you turn back?
and jump in to the deep end
quicksand
pelicans
disturbed by the life you encountered
a room full of girls
begging for candy bars
through hell
with teeth and excrement
a life of blindness
No comments:
Post a Comment