Talk to me about flowers and fires. The orchids of our collected youths are bleeding into rose water and being smashed into books. For a little look like a picture stretched under a slide hiding, elfin to run back away from us.
In the hearth of us we wonder what the charcoal will draw next. Sticks on the banks of the styx In it’s flicking midst I can almost see the little beat-less heart in the center of the cherry. It’s like it’s still held still in pursed lips.
In a falling little flame accidently spilling it.
Out in Saturday mornings. Out of school so sliding in our nose rings. Skiving by lying with fist rubbed eyeballs. The swell, Then the classic sweetness of the re-sleep.
Marker pen graffiti. Feeling like elitists because we don’t like elitists. Defeatist is in right now, love's yet a fable. (Planets are *****) on physics tables, and writings on my hands, but **** it man, I won’t remember them, anyway.
Blurry nameless kisses tasting like French lager, or is that me? Bellybutton shots. Love at a coin toss or against a brick wall was at it's best. But there’s room for two in this tent full of burn-holes.
Iron maiden. never paid but in microphone coldness on the lips. Lifted on the fix. Giving the week in a night and taking the night for a week, with velocity.
Headbanger’s neck on the pen-bottle ****, being used, being used up. Swimming against the river. Golden Virginia, Sobranies in the bus shelter. And as the day's screen goes over we still kept the bonfire running in the rain.
That's what talks to me. I'm laying back, but moving forwards, involuntarily.