Rose

o rose
you must be tired of bad manners
o rose
you must like that the trains come often
o rose
you must wonder why people move so fast
o rose
you must enjoy the naked girls falling from the trees
o rose
the trains are always coming fast, competing with cheetahs
o rose
that’s how it’s always been

© Matthew Goff

She had shifted me ten degrees, to the right, from the sight of a cat dangling a villain from the roof. Its tiles had soon adjusted to my position now, configuring in unison to the discomforting moaning of breath sneaking out from the closet bedroom window. These roof-tiles now reflected ten different expressions on my face at once. “making up for lost time, eh?”, the villain stated generously.

© Matthew Goff

Her heart dances through innocence
A young girl plays with her spider
Her mother Judith calls out to her among a sea of responsibility
Lily responds with her dreams

A mother dreams herself of happiness for them
A daughter being sick for years
She still chases flowers and youth shines
Yet there are serious waves

© Matthew Goff

People walking down the street,
Spilling pink makeup in beautiful designs
People walking down the street,
Collecting wind-blown leaves and directions
People walking down the street,
Exchanging sensual greetings
People walking down the street,
And pass by rainbow symbols
People walking down the street,
Contemplating dirt

© Matthew Goff

When my friends talk of contentment, many of times I have dreamed of a house where pink angels lay down to rest from an evening they swore would never let them rest again, until every moment was covered in a glaze of unspeakable spice. A treasured necklace discovered around a wax doorknob, choking a mysterious day, when most people resort to lashing into an unforgettable sleep.

© Matthew Goff

When my friends talk of contentment, many of times I have dreamed of a house where pink angels lay down to rest from an evening they swore would never let them rest again, until every moment was covered in a glaze of unspeakable spice. A treasured necklace discovered around a wax doorknob, choking a mysterious day, when most people resort to lashing into an unforgettable sleep.

© Matthew Goff

The Broken Angel of Slow *** Flight and Her Impossible Audience

The broken angel of slow *** flight
Walked up to the store with rock and roll in her heels
In front of drunk men
She belted out a few lines of a seventies classic
Her singing wild and ***** as her body
A crazy street person they would say
As she caringly petted the store owner’s dog
Looks of mild contempt were her thanks
And yet her love flowed
Some foreign heart untouched by ordinary ignorance
She stayed awhile and tried to make friends
Mostly ignored, except for the occasional glance one has towards a circus show
Performing and yet not performing
She lifted up her shirt for some reason to reveal her stomach
She had the free sexuality of a playful stripper
And then she spun out again in another direction
After awhile she left
With a genuine smile for everybody

The reason for her visit was unclear
But she was tagged a ***
And there was some relief that she was gone
How can a person’s apparent vocation cloud the stars they explode for you?
A slow firework blew by the store and is seen like the dirt under our shoes
Whereas we wear our boredom like a crown
And hold others to the same so-called normal criteria  
We call her a ***
But envy the rebel ruby of her freedom

© Matthew Goff