It is here
that broken memories find their home.
Divorced from the nests
they have made in our chests,
sinking talons into hearts
and clogging our veins
like the junk from a million Wal-Marts.
The air hangs like flypaper,
catching every breath
like a moment in time.
Every foot falls on crust and grime
and used needles.
The colors are faint
but still bursting with life,
pastel shades of peeled paint.
There's a girl with antelope antlers
and a man with a lobster head,
A lobster made completely
of whole-wheat sliced bread.
There's freaks of every size and shape
abominations of every description
but for a surrealist,
these thoughts are our prescription.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
It is here
that broken memories find their home.
Divorced from the nests
they have made in our chests,
sinking talons into hearts
and clogging our veins
like the junk from a million Wal-Marts.
The air hangs like flypaper,
catching every breath
like a moment in time.
Every foot falls on crust and grime
and used needles.
The colors are faint
but still bursting with life,
pastel shades of peeled paint.
There's a girl with antelope antlers
and a man with a lobster head,
A lobster made completely
of whole-wheat sliced bread.
There's freaks of every size and shape
abominations of every description
but for a surrealist,
these thoughts are our prescription.
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