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