Walking alongside the horizon
Of the striped tie trees
And living for a trump card
Wasting in patterns of living lard

New melodies that caress me
With colloquialism cascading over the sea
It’s what they’re born to do
Do not add it to your mindstew

Link the speech diligently
Live your dawning belligerently
And don’t run out of too many words
Don’t flutter your mind over spells like a bird

My sweet greatness, give me some bones
Nothing else is holding them still
Would it be trite to watch my tone?
I am as flippant as a burning windmill

Help me here, it’s easy to be a stranger
It’s easy to stay filled
It’s easy to ****

Help me stay deprived
It’s better than needing more to be alive

False- on flying feet
Shawls of holy bleats
Call down his mighty fleet
Callous men of twelve defeats

Truly of the uncaring dawn
Lies the stiff, porcelain doll
Green and red, the pawns of the lawn
Our World-Collective Greenwich Atoll

This nomad collective
A messiah of glass
Aren’t they so selective?
Aren’t the brass so crass?

The caveat of the cavalier:
Gold is so brittle
The loudest ears of golden leers
And how they change so little

The nomad rejective
A Pariah of sand
Aren’t they so reflective
Of once-golden land?

False on flying feet
Tall: the new-world sleet
Call down the mighty fleet
Callous men of greater feats

You wanted to be immortal
Spent your days searching for the fountain of youth
Hoping to make a deal with the devil
But my love you've succeeded you mission
The answer was simple
To be immortal all you had to do
Was break a poets heart

Sometimes I like to go for a late-night swim

I strip down and sit on the edge of the horizon

Dip my toes in the darkness before plunging into the stars

I swim and swim until my feet can’t touch the skyline and the moonlight could easily drown me

I lay on my back and gaze down at the city below me

I watch cars on the freeway and lovers on the boardwalk

I dive deep into the universe open my eyes to observe the planets

Soon the sun starts to float towards me

Wrap myself in its rays

Walk back into my apartment

I grab coffee and watch the world rotate around me

Those nights are when I feel most content

Watching the world below grounds me

Translucent, red traffic light
Belongs so comfortably
No one made a fuss over its colour
Just an instinct for the shade
The perfect pigment
No hustle, no alarm
Being the man who ponders this
Am I not allowed the breeze or the brevity?
Are we blessed to fidget the cigarette?
Cursed to be tense
I imagine a mellow, white man
Prancing on a set of traffic lights
Naturally pristine and silky
He plays in an explorative band
Rock and roll on scalpels
So smooth, that breathing
Not a single itch
I’m going to achieve such a feat
One day
I’ll be a queen *****

What if girls stopped painting their faces,
and painted canvases instead?
Imagine!
Picasso as a 21st century woman.
Painting bird wings on her head.

Two faces and no spine.
How unusual that would be!

What if girls stopped painting their faces,
and painted canvases instead?
What now?
Warhol as a 21st century woman.
Bright pink hair on her head.

Repeated images on a screen.
How unusual that would be!

Let’s defy these scientific rules for a minute
And immobilize this systematic reality.
Lets make our own personal route
Towards a surreal land, just like fantasy

A place where i could stretch my arm and grab a star
A place where you could sit by my side, holding a jar.

Where we could put them in jar and keep it under the moon.
Then listen to their sweet, soothing and mellow tune.

Where we could make anything from their glowing dust.
Or use them to fullfil our wishes, if we must.

A place where we could be together for *****.
Only if we could defy scientific rules for once.

The sky shifted out of excitement, malforming into the menacing child of blue and indigo. It inspired the apex of one’s thoughts, yet promised stoic impotence; a blasé response. Besides a burning Nissan, I was perplexed. Something taught me that I should be emoting, and the glove should be reading into my vortex of encumbrance. If no one acknowledges that I must be freed, shall I retain the visage of a captive? I am but a stifled, trembling man.

How many colours fit in your hand?
Is this a question you'd understand?
How many palm trees obey your command?
Unless you are dreaming, I'd dare to say none.

How can a word go swimming in land?
That makes less sense than a musicless band.
Lightly drawn bridges, which taste naught but bland.
Don't trust your own words, unless they are fun.

A desert will bake you with deafening sand,
As much as a cloud will make you less tanned.
That's more than a cockroach could ever withstand.
The words on your tongue would melt in the sun.