In summer nights your words goes wild, slipping in
through the windows so you could sort of smell
how the whole night had turned out
Imagine the look on the face
when they realised what you stole out of them
Stopping it from the step, loosing the language
in the tombs of dead fools
(where else could be home?)
I stick my finger up the hole
spin it around, so that the twist of pleasure falls out
dripps to then become sticks that pokes holes
inlines
As a kid,
I could take them away, imagining that I
went away
so that we never had to hear that cunning mind again
I will never turn younger, I’m told.
I’m just wondering what they mean
For what happens when my mind does not absorb the idea
realisation about the casual plan
it sort of falls apart
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 8:08 PM UTC