If wasting your young years, brush away your tears and run faster than the speed of train explosions; past sister, storm, and candlelight; through Regret's cement, if only to skin and flay this moment a harming icicle.
Tuscan Leather know breaths to lick the ones and zeroes and leave the chorus girls on the tarantula headdress.
Poison in the night air/licking at a gravestone;/we caught it unaware:/however, the epidemic cast such a pall,/and, unfortunately affected all:/even this one red dress,/ held, yes, in my won paw:/ reddening and laughter-infecting my gaping maw.
Play with me, the bass for me, for I am running through a haunted forest as my blouse terrorizes what is left of the fragmenting orange leaves; yes, and let Fire smile as the chestnut falls.
Chameleons know misery because a mother's nipples are always in tunes of wavering nourishment: white clouds above the sea of ferns, rainbowing nature between black-out shocks; puncture a minnow if you grow off course: there are bullets in my cheeks.
Teenagers were in heat when New York City streets uncoiled themselves from around the subway lungs to proposition a pauper hovering with candles to dream Locked Locket.
We soldier on, playing goofy games and promising our hiccups will bloom sometimes into nourishing meals for an unseen alien species (speckled at the curb).
Spaceflight spacefights were deflecting dotted curves up along the course as the alligator drew real red meat from The Exhausting Thirst Quencher.
If dreams were rivers, could we collect reflected mountains and swim with small planes beneath the frog bubbles?
We were just orchard burglars of the night, haunting some smokestack as if it could light any hunger aflame and just leave us rockets to the rainbow.
Comb your fingers through your hair and I will be your ring and signet, weaving we the snakes in crackly tubes when our ears exploded at that local show in somebody's basement.
We used to swing under fig and apple trees, but then the dawn changed the meaning of our shadows which, emblazoned in an omen, left through separate doors within the same reflection.
White Feathers reach for blood when the clock strikes midnight and the thumping bass lifts the curtains from my eyes: I see you smoky through the beads.
When my rat teeth release the lemons, my rat tail stirs this dream a permanent Rip Van Winkle as my poisoned rat brothers relax on a towheaded cloud.
Demons purified through the spigot will turn pink and peach peonies when the skeleton pony treads the lonely sinking course.
Afraid so afraid of Night Laughter, sprouting up toe jam through the lockets of my most secret Medusa Door, wherein I see you: and what a lovely leaf bird collides our ruby eyes.
Revved and vague, ah: we insert a cartoon into the damp warehouse only to river an electrical current beyond taste: where bandages fly to kiss their wounds.
Balinese games across the land do lend a helping hand to ghosts who usher us through the news of fading occupants, young too soon.
While there was joy at the division, beyond the gates I saw a spine a'walking; 'twas ten stones larger than mine own, and in each skeleton hand: a rose roasting its own thorns on a miniature grill, smiling at its reflection as we sought its eyes for a gateway to Trust.
Hand-lettered cassette tapes contained mixes from my soul I made for you while there was something rotten and dead in my head and you blurred into a crowd at a local punk show, leaving me with my pile of cassette tapes and a storm only the screaming distorted guitars could ever assuage.
Ready to lose a privilege, I shine and turtle-wax the oak floors until possessions (cars, televisions, homes) become séances in sunny starlight: bullet moonlight: another layer of wax: a bone-marrow snake huffing to preserve our lives passing in blood clouds.
Wakin on a pretty dazed day, I blistered my fingers gripping psychedelic records the lizards told me could spray paint a record collection upon the sun to kill a thousand lemmings.
Tell me and show me if I ever open my eyes against this tiny finger pulling this little trigger because Porcelain slashed an ivory wrist, singing, "I don't wanna be in love with you."
When your afternoon turns to fur and your flannel jacket and couch blend together, it's time a Caribbean Sunset ice-quenched your drink of imaginary Desire Cubes.
