We go equally under twin ladders
rung with gears and tinsel repose,
one of our days
has waned
after the river exhausts the last
of the gold dust
a scent of scribe discerns,
Buckle up your jacket
or care , oh! whack a molester migraine
riven with funnels
that could drain a swamp on the Devil's half acre,
because yes, you could squeeze into those
pants if I squinted long and Asian like,
but that would leave me blind
and searching for code
that would unzip
the back of the dress
every womanly guitarist
desires to wear,
My desire is
seat behind
the steel beam
in the nose bleed seats,
sending you messages
with an Etch a Sketch,
a maze of straight lines
and no joke
to finish the phone call with.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Comments are moderated due to spam. But commentaries, opinions and other remarks about the posts are always welcome! I apologize for the inconvenience.