Category: Poetry and Prose
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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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I can’t say anything anymore, it doesn’t fit through the walls — the sun paper is too thin over the windows, and no one knows I’m still alive inside. There is no fortune to be had behind these LA eyes of sparkling white and bright. And I saw a window…
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I was alone to the bone On an afternoon in Rome The ballistic tests all positive Spears sharpened to a bird-beak point The traffic keeps rolling in honking circles ‘Round a statue of some Italian holy hobo There are flaming balls on catapults And smoky talk in the underground lounge…
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CEREAL AFTER SEX 