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Marquee in the moonlight
Drunk on wine
Feeling fine
Space in the sunlight
Sunflower astronaut
All the time
venus de milo arm-style
two petals falling from a tree
enraptured in a dance
the breeze blows them back and forth
loquacious music rolls across the hills
they fold in
like lovers in a street
and part ways when they reach
the dew-eyed grass
help i need glug help glug glug im gonna **** glug glug glug
he not busy being born is busy dying
poetry is rearranging faces
into the cubist shapes you only see
in your head
those washed out, decayed horns
all cracked glass and harshly strange
all sharp and dissonant and full of fragmented beauty
like hands touching in broken mirrors
that scornful, frayed love that turns the world electric blue
when you ask if i'm suffering for my art
i answer, it's alright
it's only blood
i'd rather bleed out like this and dangle
over the open air, naked and vulnerable and fragile
than freeze up, and fall into the cold abstract where
words die and communication is pointless
that empty void, spinning like a ceiling fan
into obsolete isolation
so it's alright, i'm only bleeding
i'm weaving in and out of the sharp dissonance
voyaging where only words can go
beyond my own limits, just for a moment
and finding a little beauty on the fractal
anyway he not busy being born
is busy dying.
it's alright, ma
i'm only bleeding
abating shell, abstinent and comatose
awash in ardent dissonance
strewn distorted and incommodious
bathed in existential blue cacophony

nomadic stroll down a hallway, or maybe a stairway
or maybe it's a cavern, with jagged black rocks
humidity stings and stalagmites grin
the heat death of passion, devoid of feeling

all i want is to want
the highs and lows of desire, the perennial crash
emptiness beckoning with a bony finger
wrapped in a blanket, composed and detached

say goodnight, words die
the sun goes down, someday i'll fly out here
i think i'm a little rocket sailing to another planet
across a serene watercolour void, like a painting

hollow and deep and endless, like the sea at the horizon
until i get to my destination, i'm all alone in this void
this vast and empty loneliness of mine, it's quite
quite romantic when i think about it.
im a lonely painter
i live in a box of paints
im frightened by the devil
and drawn to those that aint afraid
with nights like these, who needs enemies
Wine and cocktails making my head buzz low
Sunflowers and astrology spinning dizzy into café light
Ice cream and red nails and books
Mushrooms and dancing in empty spaces
Sun-kissed lips and hair curling in my fingers
I think I'm falling for you a little bit
Picnics and dresses.
Blank stares.
I don't want to feel nothing but I
don't want to romanticize you.
                        This is the best I can do

These feelings will go nowhere
      Exactly where I want them  
       to stay.
Lipstick stains on old book pages.
Oh gosh when is the novelty of wanting you on my lips going to wear off
you've yeed your last haw. huh?
my sunflowers died, i had to throw them away today, anyway
try hard
abstinent nomadic comatose clemency perennial tenacious
deprecation consent omittance incommodious antiphon
i'm not here in these words
ardent inherent undertone inexplicable rapture composition
ineptitude unabating ergo virgo let fish drown
swim out the blue existential perennial exposè
nothing i write means anything
elysium and gehenna and heaven dance! ballroom waltz with paradise!
doesn't matter does it?
kiln endow decree serene neopolitic  hover over the waters
death, many deaths i'll sing
exquisite and swashbuckling
awash in blue flame
i wonder what all this means as i look up
at this oceanic mountainous plateau of streamlet words i've written and drowned under
like a little void to draw me in
or a misty hollow deep to float over
within and without creation, salvation, salivation, liberation,
words mean nothing. wine and dead roses. all my sunflowers died.
hypnosis electric blue ice cold bitter lemonade
picturesque animals in rolling funk and havanna trees
maybe i should be more optimistic
it's not like i'll die like this
paralysed contortion grime delicacy fragile breast camera
oh how the breeze fragile
Fragile, it goes like this, it's okay i suppose:
I am a wine glass in your palm
I know you'll let me shatter
Breaking into a million glass fractures
Doesn't seem to matter

"Oh darling" I hear you call out
Over the inexplicable black void
Over which I delicately balance
Despite my attempts to avoid

In my heart I know the choice I've made
And I know that choice is you
All the realisation in the world
Wouldn't make me say we're through

White sheets, blissfully innocent
Stained with your sickly pale glow
I've got to have you, I know I shouldn't
What happens next, you already know.
somewhere between always and never
in an abstract space like a dark tunnel
a mosquito buzzes low
you're leaned back on your pillow
blanket outstretched on the pale green
looking up at a sky with no stars
country music plays softly from your radio
but there's nothing to hear
you reach into your back pocket
and pull out a portrait of mona lisa
with gum catering to her face
and sticking to your painted fingernails
smoke drifts softly off the orchards and ambient conversations  
there's empty tension as you hear the clink
of the wine glasses being passed around
silvery flowers are shivering in the empty moonlight
you're having a daydream while someone's talking
i think you're dreaming about a crow
its tracing your movements while you're walking
stomping across wet plants and muddy grass
and puddles in the road in yellow raincoats and dyed hair
holding mushrooms and butterflies
these soft discussions that go nowhere
are a backdrop for black and white images that mean nothing
you could catch a handful of rain as it trickles down
like a drop sliding down the side of a cup
you could empty that handful of rainwater
spread it out on the grass like
coins and diamonds layered on a glass table
you could be intertwined with your lover on the blanket
letting your whispers tickle each others ears
while the music from the radio plays skeleton keys
and dead notes
soon, your arm resting across a lover's chest
will taste the stinging warmth of the sun
as it breaks the morning sky into a million parts
and then you'll have to deal with the lazy poetic
imagery of the new day
bees will hum against the dew coloured flowers
hazy orange heat melting into mirages
will reflect off car windows
and burn your feet on the inky black tar
and you'll have to stare at the hearts etched into legs
so to all the ceiling fans that stopped spinning a long time ago
your friends raise a glass and say
"hello never
how may i be of assistance
it seems to me you've lost something
i would like to help you find it"
the skies are darker than usual and the clouds are greyer
the sunlight is warmer and friendlier
the green is wet
words and dialogues are more abstract than ever.
plants are playing in the suburban boredom
the pool is sunburned

there's a ladybug on your leg.
say goodnight to it while you still have the chance.
these visions of Johana are all that remain
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