When my mind starts
to wander and my eyes
refuse to blink, I travel
down the endless road
of a thousand dead poets,
I hold onto every blue note,
spilling ink across an indigo
sky, give me soft jazz that
complements the rain,
give me a conversation with
beauty that makes me blush.
Maybe we should just leave
she said, drive for miles into
the heart of the bleeding sun,
throw our dead love into the
defeated sea, get tattooed by
insane gypsies with missing teeth!
sleep beneath the shooting stars
to the sound of vicious violins!
we can change our names to
something unpronounceable,
become spontaneous,
become obsolete …
Clay.M