A ribbon of light thrashing on the macadam. Later, dried blood. Kundalini awakening my ass.
This was all written a long time ago. Your part is whatever you say it is. All Babylon, all the time.
The last of the lilacs, early rain. You have to look where you're going or you'll get what you ask for. Paint a picture with scripture, wash it down with liquor.
His last smile was a pure rictus. A striking clown could not have done it better. Garter most likely.
We went to the sword fight with bells on our shoes. She poured me a coffee, a series of graceful movements that suggested a devout yoga practice. Smell of honeysuckle, a dry rasping sound in the mica.
Another belated message that will not be sent. Indulge me in some cryptology, won't you? He wrote he wrote.
After the movies, lyric poetry. After that, this.
No comments:
Post a Comment