Barren, first, the golden nest.. The budding breast.. Bloated with mystical, imaginary potential that pause in glory with thoughts of ghost, fled.. The ebbing, unknown wound. The disfigured prison of resonant debauchery; seeping through cracks, corroded with mold..
Destined as the servant to the night where. Your moon dreams of the dirt and the. Sharp tongue of your zealous will is only. Congruent with the salt in your mouth and.
Drooling red from my eyes to meet the bitter. Sun that shines past into light. Setting fire. To curtains in hope that you're dreaming.. Destroying the tomb of memories from your.
Twisting and turning beside the slumbering Tereza, he recalled something she had told him a long time before in the course of an insignificant conversation. They had been talking about his friend Z. when she announced, If I hadn't met you, I'd certainly have fallen in love with him..
Held my breath and drove through a maze of wealthy homes. I watched how green the trees were. I watched the steep walkways and the white fences. I gripped the wheel. I sweated against the leather. I watched the dogs twist through the wealthy garden. I watched you lay on a towel in grass that exceeded the height of your legs. I gazed into reflective eyes. I cried against an ocean of light..
Tricked into some fodder about this oasis.. This conversation of new beginning.. Having enlightening talks over common interests.. Chained together (forever) to push onto the celebrated platform..
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We're still laughing over lore.. Still talking about a stream of smoke in the head of a shelter tank, swimmingly bored.. Swimming in monotony. Swimming in ponds where our knees scrape the bottom..
Hindered by sober restlessness. Submitting to the amber crutch. The theme in my aching prose. Fantasizing the sight of Manhattan; that pour of a bitter red being that escapes a thin frame. The rebirth of mutual love. The slipping on gloves to lay tenderly..
I imagine the gracious,. Benevolent ritual of Death.. Grave and porcelain,. With baby blue lips and pale pink eyes,. Descending toward me.. Her glowing hands cradled at my head.
Scrawled into the pavement, again and again. Written on the red stalls in smokey tin. On the smokey tin, it melts again and again. On the booths of the round table, again and again.
I woke in a sweat from a desirous fever. In the pocket of yesteryear. Where faults have fallen to some.. I begged not to carry the corpse.. To not be a queer fish in unforgiving hearts..
Where has my passion gone?. Has it been carried off. By some lonely driver. . In a line of fluorescent light?. Has it been blurred together. . In ribboned patterns.
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