This Love Song seemed like a safe place to unpack my ****. But a safe place is where Lyrics go to die. And this is Not a Song.
and it starts like this. all the time.
i fella sleep in a widdle boat and told a seagull that i was having a dream about talking to seagulls and he was astonished to have the pleasure of meeting a boat that had the good sense to plug the hole with a poet…. because they never wake up and they do so with extreme prejudice. that simply screams Resident. In Fact!
He’d never even seen a boat. So there’s THAT. I offered Seagull “ The Cool -Side of The Pillow. “ So I could sit upright for a moment and jot this down. He was like “ What’s a pillow? “ And I had no idea what it was that brushed against my legs but It was There. then It was Gone. when i stopped using the metaphor.
I was treading a fathom of pixie dust and transgender proto-gods, all cuddling in a huddle of metaphysics as adorable as a radioactive abrupt
Ah yes… someone was cooking bacon… and bacon is sleep’s kryptonite. so the dream was a wrap. and i had a bird’s nest woven from the silk of my discarded cocoon. codename: Chrysalis. and my mouth was dry. a stubborn dry that follows a deluge of phantasmagoria on a Futon that is a God to cat hair. My Futon is Oblique and Omnipotent. Apparently.