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.
