Category: Free-Range Verse
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I was sipping nihilistic karma from a chipped cup on a hillside overlooking a rainy funeral dirge
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And there’s a manic man behind a typewriter, his heart in his hands, sweating away in this disillusioned reality fantasy
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Empty roads beckon wanderlust, Heaven torn asunder by the sun
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I saw Elvis making crop circles in Atlantis from the window of my pink wooden house
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Halfway through the memories on haunted hill, halfway through the turnstiles stuck in glue, sun burns red, sun burns blue, a wind sick hotel in desert hue
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Memories are deposited, the pains and joys withdrawn – it’s like black-and-white Poland to me, wandering in rags, sleeping in parks, losing muscle just to hustle.
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There’s this long line of darkness on the other side of day I stand there listening to the starless sky flow like Styx There’s that smooth dome of light pollution Pulsing like an orange Creamsicle Never sleeping, always dripping Like childhood summer sun And all above it, that starless sky…
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And there were orange baptized bullets lodged in a wall of sea salt adobe and skull, a hard skull of architecture burned and bandaged the sun was far too bright as I dug them out with the tip of a knife and I was suddenly cursing the violence of Southwest…
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She is everywhere and all over it, a stellar angel chick, shocked me like socket sex, and then just as quickly, pulling me into the trees that rain.
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Why is it now 10 million memories later That you appear When I feel my hand empty In a moment of all alone In a moment of going to shore What is this history haunting You restless in my sheets Of dreams On the aeroplane I go To another city,…
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CEREAL AFTER SEX 