We met in a blue cafe, a women in red, with eyes that turned me into a Spanish ghost, and her radiant display of laughter, the wind she wore the coffee she drowned the kiss she gave me on a platter of gold.
Two lives, woven together with fire and sweat, honey sand, sea breezes and the cool wind of winter.
I still love to watch her sleep, and count the minutes of love.
You watch the plastic frame meld into itself, The second hand turning inward Smoothly running down the walls like fingertips trying to find their hands, Tapping the pencil against the desk, Tapping soles onto tiled floors, Toes rhyming in spite of themselves, waiting.
PET this pretty kitty,monster oh, WET is progress-pink disease of love,my victims(like when i break your heart i won’t deny it all so we suffer the Bigness of your LITTLEST pelvic region so unwish a world of pity flesh and my need for guidance is so much like-more the world born–pity my poor flesh(i “hyper-magical beauty”)kitty so WET and in need of a good petting hand and two eyes upon my ever unwished words(never save me from these evil deeds of desire)ugh, ultra-omnipotence makes me hot and with a **** to pay the angels say,”what the devil needs to know I always seem to suffer myself;” so pet this pretty kitty,monster yeah, a wet progress-pink disease o’love
WHETHER morticians wear the makeup of cadavers or madness is the friendliest voice makes no difference you are sick to believe loud colors have no mouth and the trunks of people grow deeply rooted roads that have many toll booths the rich pay for free things and the poor steal dreams those dead envy the living and those alive feel so dead.