I've always said I hated corniness.
Truth is,
whenever I see someone
like you
being corny
I love you even more.

Take what is left of mine
Something buried and something wound
a jarred melody
of a song most dear
and hang it upon a river of self-doubt
to let it float in a pond of that overrated emotion.

          They had always said
                                                         in LOVE
nothing should really matter.

Never told us about the different ones.
                  don't they need it too?

Today,
I wake with a fire,
burning through the gallows in this heart of mine,
searing the cavity within, and thus
churning the blood into a vile silver mercury,
throbbing through the aorta, veins, and
into the legs, arms, hands
and finally the mind,
into a madness
--and in madness a confession--
I yearn.
I yearn, so much and so much more,
than just a gaze,
than just a kind greeting,
than an accidental touch.
But I am
a beast and no more, eating, sleeping and watching,
as be it societal acceptance,
a self resistant machine,
that renders me a master of
the art of acting indifferent at your gaze.
Blame me not, my love, for this act is  to ward off
the seductive aphrodisiac of which vibrant colors  glows in ecstasy,
(being anything but)
in which I believe love to be.
So leave it at that, and nothing more,
thoughts of unrequited love
and thoughts never to become actions.

blip bleep beep boop
santas gonna watch me sleep
slip sleep seep soap
mommy wants to have a feast
avocados, bathrooms, teaspoons, menthol breath
so very special to watch you seek
bread, seven elevens, toilet paper, adjectives
the way you'd never see.

to make someone feel the way you want them to feel
is to trade in your soul for a pizza
without the mushrooms, sausages, pineapples, M&M;'s, pepperoni, cheese, tomato (it's pronounced toe-mato mind you) sauce, crust, dough and
leaving all but an empty
box on top of the garbage can.
too bad for the floating astronaut,
drunk on coconuts,
when he left in his tin can.
he's begun dancing on empty matter
with all the missing pizzas.
i guess their owners have been
****** and dumped
in another swirling portal
a long time ago
when the light was flickering off on
that empty street at dark(au contraire, mon cheri!),
just threatening to die when you believed it was ageless?
the night will never be a color.
goodnight my loveless ingénue

The single green light,
of that lighthouse cries out tonight,
crying
alive with a exuberant shine,
yearning
and pulling a child from his swing,
closer
to that barely visible, minute and faraway siren call
swinging
and yet somehow, sometime, somewhere, the child begins,
falling
into
that might have been at the end of the dock.

The girl had seen too much.
She had traveled to Iceland
Berlin
Amsterdam
France.
At the mere age of four.
She had visited China
Russia
Australia
Belgium
At the mere age of eight.

And at the mere age of thirteen,
she met Pandora.
They became fast friends.
Pandora opened the box.
They became fast enemies.
There were no "blue pills" in Pandora's box.

And so the girl went on.
She had seen too much.
Knew too much.
It didn't even matter.

She went on and composed poems
metaphorical pieces of ****,
that meant nothing
yet everything
to some misguided soul.

It bored and amused her.
Still didn't even matter.

my love is an ancient curse
the bruised fruit that falls from trees
has been taken from a cavity deep inside
is what those who dream want to seek
but please don't go please don't go
maybe i'm your annabelle
maybe you're my moby **** / /
but there's too much confusion here
it's just walls walls walls
buttered chicken has been worshiped here
a deity i've prayed to almost every night
my love is winter frost,yet taller than the sycamore, wider than the infinite
and it's okay because it's always fine
i've got nothing but time anyways
and i could be a superhero instead
because i'm dull and evil
because i could be anything you ever wanted//
anyways i hear you're doing fine
so i don't know why i'm still *******'

We hardly trust anyone
No matter how genuine that person may be.
We go on pairs throughout our lives because
we believe that we are not satisfied as one.
We sometimes believe that there is a solution
by finding other halves
in people, in stimulators, in distractions
in roles.
We have trouble finding ourselves
and prefer to believe that people stronger than us
or people who appear stronger than us
can help us
and make us better.
We come from bad places
but we are not bad people
despite what we believe.
But we keep a strong face
and solider through
blame and shame
through self-hatred.
We call ourselves names all the times
when no one else does so
so we get our usual dosage of misery.
In the worst cases,
we never believe anything or anyone
and let our hearts die on the pavement
while the sky falls.
And the funniest thing of all?
It's our fault.

hyper-jinxed like an old talkie
scrap the fat off the cow!
swipe that smile off your face
to watch the sunset fade away.
batshit crazy
candidly rogue
an eventful leap from far fetched lore
gory details please spare me
a big fat ***** and a way to reap
the pretties from the twits.
but the lee-way from the stars beyond
sometimes gets trapped into hairy armpits.
then their neon pink hued blue eyed trolls
take their slippers to the snow.

Furnished armoire
holds my books,
that holds the cards
that write my life.
in that card
beside happy blue cursive font,
is a snowman
who says,
*******.

So silence awaits once more
and it's quite a scene
as our confusion envelopes the hypocrisy
of the chaste *****
who says once more
'goodnight'.
solemn
genuine
affectionate
crying--
we are celeste
the virtuous maidens
of the night and cursed are we
with the plight of the folly of our ***.
the holy Mary cries for our sins
our sexuality unspoken
our faithless oppositions
our gender--broken
our identities stolen
by objects of the night
a billboard of
a cavernous hole with
satin titillating  sights.
Help us,
we cry,
to the men that are so attractive
that represent our needs
our desires and wants
by their undeniable marble bodies.
Help us,
we cry,
to the men that are so attractive,
to open our doors, to carry our purses,
to make our decisions without any strife.
Help us,
we cry--thrice--
to the men that are so attractive,
to make us feel again, to fill in a cavernous hole,
to give us children that fight.
And for me,
love me, hold me tight, kiss my cold nose in this winter's night,
be attractive, just only attractive,
for you are nothing but
the man I love,
whole with all my heart.

it's so beautiful*
*******.
it's a heartless ***** that luminates the dark sky as dreamers lie to themselves
romanticizing and influencing young everywhere to love dream and hope alike, when it stalks upon the sun.

despite all this,
the red on your white pants
makes humiliation sound a lot better than the repulsion of a custodian finding a used **** pad, soaked in red
clogging up the toilet.
dear.

it's a ****** that flaunts upon it's charms
while lingers in the blue sky staring up at the sun.

the red in the sun,
burns eyes so that the neurons in the optic nerve
die and somehow gives you a miraculous squint
but it's far more better than the repulsion of the custodian finding "lady" napkins  clogging the toilet hole.
dear.

someone's always got to be a custodian don't they?

Today, on the way to dinner, I saw a church. "Worship at 9:00", it said on that board, standing vigilant and possessing an refined temperance to it. It was next to a KFC and a liquor shop.

What do you want to grow up?
A StarGirl!

"A StarGirl you shall be",
they said giving spraying neon paint on me
and letting me stand in the night.

But when I stood there
they asked me again,
"Are you happy?"

I couldn't answer.
I was too busy shining to know.
They washed the paint off me
and painted the earth all over me,
lying me down, pined to the ground.
"Are you happy, now?"

I couldn't answer.

From Aries to Pisces,

herein lies the golden-orbed saviors,
grunting and hustling
across the globe
to find
a pious zealous man
and bring him to
visit the Dark Angel below the sea,

herein lies
a dead leader
in a red country
inhabited by sunken cheeks
and the optimism and fear
in their
hollowed eyes,

herein lies
a dead inventor
of overrated gimmicks
men consider wonders
and substantial of life

herein lies
the tragedy of a man
starry-eyed at the red blinking lights of the street light,
having the jovial thought of a
fat jolly white bearded man leaving gifts next to his
pink plastic tree near the garbage disposal where he resides,

herein lies
life taken...
and
life given...
and
never noticing the forward momentum of which time goes by

Why aren't we perfect?
on this boat in the taihiatian sea
amongst the gardenia planted pots
smothered by it's heavenly fumes
and surrounded by leaping dolphins?

1) you'll mess up my bed sheets
2) I'd make sure everyday you'll have is ****
and 3) because change is hard for both you and me.

but why is it harder to being all alone
-
wild


-
wild



-
WILD




-
with


-
freedom
-
than being with you?


so don't write about me,
when I'm dying and shriveling
and not here
and
this premonition comes true
and
I've
given up.
Write about me now,
alive and well,
desolate and passionate
imploring you to go
exploring with me
in both our
wild

-
WILD


-

ways,
perfect in our imperfect ways
being both brilliantly terrible
and both terribly brilliant.

Your days of becoming an arrogant ***
are far from my days from being a condescending *****.
But in the end
we're all stupid ******
who ****
and marry
their cousin's cousin
from a long time ago.

everyone has their own silver lining is a bunch of flies covered in honey
in the end the metaphysically jaded murders
as every one else dies in the
intellectual wasteland
known as compromise
a symbiotic
parasitic
stream of conscious
and god forsaken humanity.

the gunman is holding his fire
and the eagle is soaring higher
and this love is want and desire
but I can't find it any longer.

the train is boarding the station
and the waiting is like the waste
of every single story
that were lies about this place

take this away from me  
fill this sink with
endless china and my
wordless dreams

the pictures are but a liar
their stories written through snowstorms
and my drink is candy and whiskey
every night and day

the gunman is holding his fire
and the eagle is soaring higher
and this love is want and desire
but I can't find it any longer.

and i miss you i guess
and i miss you i guess
and i miss you i guess
and i miss you i guess

spastic discs swirl and swivel at times
when the dream machine follows through
it's good intentions
it's at this time i'm held up at the overhang
on the rainy day
sputter gutter and mess.
take it from your acidic siblings that
brothels are for the sissies and the missies.
i know not of the time or place
but the measures taken for this dream
to make pace.
sometimes even jelly fish can jive to this tune.
now can it, Betty Lou Ann.

Oh Darling,
don't sanctify me as a higher being,
your salvation out of your rut.
the world is a green moist sponge,
and I am just another dihydrogen oxide molecule trapped
in it's fibers
crying for salvation
screaming for baptization
waiting for nothing
and although you think in binary terms.
I think in decimal
and yet
we are the stigma
of the guy
and the gal
in this dream of dreams.
a heiress of confession
I am here
surreal and every single inch
made out of stardust
to remind you...
Remember Montague
and the frosted lake?
where we built the blanketfort
among the trees
for the child
and lit her world
with dazzling LEDs,
as she stared in the tent
higher than fools
talking nonsense words
about the world
and her feelings
because she's so sad
and because she's so mad
because no one cares
except her
and her watering eyes.
she says.
I have no one.
And you can't do anything about it, starwhale
because that's the way I like it.

silencio
green headless  are on the counter
screaming their watch-less glare
they lie silent in their wrathful stare
at my wall-less lair
this was not supposed to be
the bilipid layered says
I cannot watch you out to die
the zeroes yell this time
coreless deficient famine
the clock ticks its time
i think my mom is at the dock of the sea harbor in Sublime
and don't their lobsters never die?
if that is cake then so be it
and then we will make you mine.
chant with me,
hey no more negativity,
we'll go out and find a dime
it was till then I saw the ******
at the rear end of the bus
who told me... no more... no less
was what the bus was fee-d
a journey travelled
and journey lost
to Target I ventured to and back
and here the sandless land
I find you
weighed measured and broken
by your own laughing stairs.
llorando

I am your fetish
I am your lullaby
Oh it's my fault I agree
It's all my fault I agree
I couldn't stand my own ground
I couldn't stay safe and sound

To take back the past
To take back my past
To rewind irrevocably
Is a thing that can't be done
Is a thing that should
Never be done

I am your faith
Worshipping on your knees
You pray every night
To a girl that doesn't exist
To a girl that will never exist

But I'm not that bright I guess
I'm still a faithless heretic
Still you blaze your suns dreams
Scorching the ground
Of withered trees

I guess you'll never know
I guess you'll never know
I guess you'll never know
I guess you'll never know

the young girl with her fat brightly colored shirt uncle
playing games
you guess, i guess, pork flavored buns!
one by one by one.
IQ games,
what quite fun.
try and find the
lying nun.

"****" says he quietly to himself.
what's this word?
bystanders see
and laugh inside
but the other girl at crackers lane
can only
watch and die.

The ocean isn't really beautiful.
Even Bukowski said so.

Stop treating things like they need to be
happy gooey and awesome.
In fact,
the happy gooey--or crunchy if it is preferable-- awesome,
isn't real because it
oozes alacrity
and therefore adds some sort of undeniable blandness,
like the way they add unfavorable GMOs in food,
to reality
that makes happy gooey awesome all the more not
perfect.
The sun isn't always magnificent is it?

There will be bad days,
where
people are strange
and do strange things
that  you will not understand
and you will do strange things
where people will never understand
or when **** just starts to fall apart
like life lacks forward momentum
and nihilism runs rampant in your lungs.
But it's not always night is it?

And then there will be normal days
when this place seems to let you breathe for awhile,
inhaling and exhaling
filing up those voids of the "bad days"
and the "good days",
allowing you to enjoy the small pleasures of this
world.
Allowing you to fit
and conform
into boundaries of your own
self-made contentment,
ultimately restricting you
into your self-made hole
with you and your conquered beliefs over the years
from good situations or bad situations
or situations in between.
But
and don't mind me for taking that long to reach
a small point
the entire universe isn't that small is it?

The warm soft coral petals on the face,
sheltering the delicate eye tissue underneath,
no longer flutter open,
to see
the many signed divorce papers on the mahogany desk in the home office,
the Bon Jovi tickets in the right hand pocket of the J.Crew pants,
the facebook profile of the attractive girl online whom were predestined to one of those tickets,
the letter of resignation hidden in the black briefcase,
the guitar that was pulled out of the garage hanging in his office,
the numbers of old bandmates on the coffee table,
the disappointed faces of the family and friends, and
the lengths taken in the pursuit of happiness.

And yet, he lies there knowing that, he misses
the sky,
the sun,
the stars,
the moon,
the variegated leaves in the fall and spring,
the wheel in the front lawn tied by a rope to an sturdy branch,
the cerulean colored house that was painted by cheap labor,
the fat cat lounging in the parkinglot of his workplace,
the boss that threatened due to an inferior complex,
the punk the daughter was infatuated with, with the waned colored skin and dyed blond greasy hair,
the plain-Jane daughter and her defiance of his authority,
the stepford wife and her arguments about misplaced toothbrushes and
the co-worker and his chiseled face with an inquisitive smirk of all knowingness.
And he realizes that now.

The day shall come when you too shall become a formula
a jumble of this and that
and bit more of limes.

you and I are all formulas.
Cause and effect
Birth and death
Growth and decay
Yin and yangs

And while we're in the middle we
become questions
like why, who, when, what, how...

like
closure?

I've never been gold
Although Daddy tells me so
Yet we show no resolve
we've been strangled from the branches
growing out of my arms.
Still our palm lyrical lines innate
the lub-dub machine finely tuned
the knees have blessed by
the ashes from the moon.
But by and by
grass stains the tombstones of my dread,
locks freed from the brass constraint,
paradigm extrapolated from the taint,
**** smeared on the watching walls,
living on far longer after we die.
And yet, still here we stand here
cross eyed and bright
pictures tinted lime green light
motionless incisors greeting the might
feet planted parallel to the earth
being nothing
nothing at all.

stands alone today and tells a story to clouds
(putt putt)
the worst has happened at the days end
and the frozen orange Gallon
like ice has chosen to now become hand
all in all more or less
3.78lbs put in plastic wrap.
stands alone in the dollar market surrounds with fleeting thoughts sometimes forgotten
today at days end lost while
****** sun at times lost in ******* ******* snake movie
pouring into the retina of the brainless child
o mi babbino mi caro,  past is the skating rink of hell but
knock yourselves out in deep perpetual insanity of whats, hows and neverminds.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooosallyc­an be adisappointmentsometimesbutwestillloveherbecausesheis just whatwe callfamilyandfamilyissoimportanttoidentifyoneselfinaworldofchaosc­alledearthoooooooooooooooooooooooooo
computer glitch and error of the metaphysic naiveté of the skating rink of hell near the ******* ******* snake movie in the story of the white trashed oppressively personified virgo at the dollar market holding a gallon of orange juice that costs more than $7.65 because it's apparently organic and thereby magical.

At
the time
of a late day,
when the sky has
diluted colors of burnt sienna, lavender gray, ecru and blue bell
and it's clouds are a haze of purple that seem to transcend into the other worlds,
the specks of light below these black, black boulders, so-called mountains,
become dots of light to thy eyes behind the thick glass of the moving vehicle,
reflecting
all but
life.

she says that she's been scared a long time ago.

that pink dress only gets worn in special occasions, mary lou anne!
so lost here, in a crowd with my fingers crossed behind my back, talking to a wall of pictures
--what she means is she's a queen of Chopins, the queen of *** covered mountaintops--

the hair dresser shall pin your hair up later at four, dearie.
she says that he was a man a long time ago.
mother mother, is lost in Kuwait. father father, is troubled with apple turnovers.
if this isn't right, then nothing will ever feel right again.

madam, please stop fidgeting with your dress.
a kiss has been seared onto her breast,
making the tissues underneath
smooth and strong.

darling, you look beautiful.
but somehow she's been buried there, with her daughters, her sons, and 200 families.
in a sundress by the beachside.
she says the Ripper tore her ******* open a long time ago.
music boxes tells her otherwise
that in his arms there are no more pink tomorrows.

Merge me into a sea of your emotions
to this end you can find what you want
or find why he left you
when we needed him most.
I know you hide for, hiding is easier than finding
I know you,
for who you aren't are,
and how limitations are how you define yourself by.
good god
I know you,
because at the Prime Meridian the light didn't hit your retina,
because you were too afraid to stand in the sun.

altho
                  ugh i push y
                                         ou away, yo
                                                u have alw
                                                             ­        ays see
                                                             ­                       med to kno
                                                             ­                                               w that
the truth of the m
                              atter is, i will alwa
                                                            ­    ys need you more
                and yet
                                                        poets are flagra
                            nt wastes of space
hem      
                   ming the edge
                                                  s of this society
                                                                                                               confining it
                                     with hed
          onistic needs and wants
                        and all t
                                      he ridiculous feeli
                                                           ­                               ngs assoc
                                                           ­              iated with the fu
                                                              ­                                                          cked system of
                  emot
   ional intelligence
                                            emascu
                                                           lating the blac
                                                                                          k and wh
                                                              ­                        ite i des
                        ire of



Alas, Alas
I seem to have drowned myself into Kool-Aid.
"Poets are shameless with their experiences; they exploit them" said Nietzsche once.
I wonder how you are today.

Essentially problems come from our inability to stop whining and getting ****** over by our destinies.

organs pumping thumping hard
against the metallic blades of your chest
breathlessly shaken
constrained and beaten
fear striking harmonious melodies
at which upon their command
oceans sweep from head thru toes
dwindling and descending
roaring and shrieking
comes the dark
vanished sanity completes the task
awash with thought
like the an exploded building
slamming onto pavements like dominoes
crumbling infrastructures in mid seconds
the glassy finish dissipating into
a winter's snowing night
your hands shaken and cold
eyelashes battin' about
some old little thing you'll simply forget about

enormous elephant in the room
his fat *** blocking the shrooms
i can't see the ******* moon
ahh this is that
finger that tap taps at the scaled skins
on the shapely layered fins
of the crated barreled tins
of my dainty figured limbs

that cross bows into the muscle
that beats a hollow hustle
a rhythmic monotonic tussle

that in which keeps this alive
this thing i call the enigmatic tide
this wussy like mind
this funk-du-funky found
that that idiotic lice that lied

in which I figure is the only thing left to ****
the mind that is not the vicarious blinds
that cover the truth in various skills
to which I cannot shallnot reveal in lines

i need isolation, not your constellations
i'm sorry but these stars won't guide me home tonight

our ships have sailed far apart
i'm sorry for your weathered heart

standing here i can hear the cries of my melancholic ghost
standing here i can see the tides bring in corpses of our love

but if you can please forgive me dear
i loved you so with all my tears

salt water was the only thing i could ever understand
salt water is the only thing i ever needed, my friend
salt water is the only thing i could ever be in the end

"we are the papillons" we say.
we march and prance
about in and about out
these shadows of the great oaks.
they look at us sternly, concerned.
but we smile,
these teeth as my
silver hair touches the bottom of the blue ocean.
I watch your
searching eyes find the neon starfish and
my
green sequins glisten amongst the corals.
yet I can never just know you just yet
as we dance here screaming
"we are the papillons!"
blobs of purple glitter surround the dance floor
and the tintinnabulation  rings in my ears
only a millisecond later.
hold my hand then
and lead me across these explosions in the sky
to take another breath, holding me in this haze of smoke.
tommorow-day just doesn't matter
when the papillons flutter here.

Opulence surrounds you, overconfident in your approach
the golden lust of your ego projects
itself in the driver's seat with that tiny smirk
here as we drive on
at a adrenaline inducing speed
the sunset caught between leaves and branches
of these trees.
I am
baptized
in a hypnagogic state
dreamy
but
still here.
"let go"
I say to you
oblivious
to what is right in front of you.
"let go of the wheel"
because
it's too beautiful
and because
I think I love here,
as I close my eyes and
letting the wind toss my hair about and
letting the stroboscopic flicker
tease the petals of my face and
forgetting about what matters and what doesn't,
more than being here with you to be honest.

Methinks he doth not have compassion,
as his gaze strays to the waxed floor, and into the blinding florescent light
in four brief moments,
never once trying to reflect a sense of empathy.
For the petals of all flowers does wither
as does the strong winds eventually lose momentum.
And into that dark place,
where one's heart is discarded into
the deep Caribbean blue mass of water
--floating alongside the millions of seawater wonders--
empathy flees the best of mankind
elsewhere.
And who's fault is to blame?
A question even the most intelligent of beings
and the most worldly of people
cannot earnestly answer?

And he is here.
his words unthinking
and "free-willed"
scorning the self-piteous.
whilst he refuses to acknowledge
his own state of being maudlin.
and this fine youth trods on
unknowingly
stepping closer to the seawater wonders,
lost.
and a little bit more.
and a lot more less.
but inevitably

At night, lavender seeps into the room with it's hypnotizing scent to formulate the words.
But loose lips attract the honeybees
divvying up the compassion that we might see.
And petunias may have costly fees
that you and I cannot foresee.
Do staple this poem onto that wall you put up,
so long ago I've noticed I might add,
and maybe use it as blackmail against my future self.
Know that I tried but failed,
and that truth, freedom, beauty and love cannot stomach the pressure
of being the right
words between you and I.
So to Tortuga,
I will say.
to Tortuga!
The place we belong
among the snivels and the ******* and many more.
Where sand granules snakes through the straw-like hair
to fly and be no more and some more among the stars.
We can connect the stars with imaginary lines
and I will draw you a spider with hairy eyes
and you paint me a fish with silky fins
in the dotted blue colored sky.
******* another purple smoke ring
from this lovely pipe of hooka,
pour me another glass of this tantalizing elixir,
and we shall forevermore be the ones we always were
you and I, nevermore.

dreams hang within a pedestal of lies
cactus flowered drifters
silent mouths, silent minds
I remember a night
a blue moon in Amsterdam
golden eyes, orange smiles
a hapless passerby

but oh how those nights
still scream my name
and yet i'm here sitting in vain

i'm not bitter--
but i've spent all my yesterdays
watching frogs fall from skies
dry winds still blow dust
from the paradise that
used to be.
oh those nights

oh those nights

oh those nights
so there


i guess
i'll keep wondering
keep wondering
if they'll ever be
here for me

one is too little, two may be perfect, three is too much.
four is hard to keep track, five my head is spinning.
six i wish i never had that much to drink, seven i watch the clock ticking.
eight, is that a tape recorder? nine, i wish you were here with me.
ten, it's too late, too late i guess.

Lackluster in spirit
pearls twirl in the midnight blue
like ballerinas on a frozen lake.
these swans make up for the moonless night
as your glittering eyes spark a glaze
behind the burning tip of your joint.
Last night I had dreamed a million dreams
of a million lights flashing
reflecting off the lake colors of red and purple.
The swans fly off sometimes when this happens
For a piece of pie in the distance.

Melancholia
is not mine
but a fruit that I chew upon
slowly at first
nippling the bud at the tip
******* the juice from the tip
baby,

just
a little bite
creating trenches
in skin, tiny crooked marks,
the footprints of the biter,
the mark of treasure hidden.

And you look so tangerine sour,
baby, doesn't matter
it's a dream of my own
mine only
and i'll watch as
salvia lingers off your skin
slathering upon the constellations on that that is lanky and pure
and the hairy forestation of your past discretions
stretching wide from fingertip to fingertop

see x marks the spot
that bitemark there--
is the foible my strength.
bootlegged and stolen through
a many tear ago.
just hoping to find
moon craters and lagan lollies
once again.

I can't stop gazing at you today
unfazed by the purple haze around.
the gospels of the faithless chapel
take a picture why don't you
lemon drops melts on my tongue
shadows of your fan-less art
this mars animal cannot forget
a tip of a top hat
a lack of understanding about the indie film
****. What the **** does this mean?
excuse my french,
But what if to-morrow is another day?
eux autres indulge in surreality
and the past belongs in the past
don't make me not love you
broken into pieces of china
a whispered conspiracy

happiness is overtly overrated
But we can't see it yet
as also we cannot see geniuses among our midsts
and the other amateurs.
"make it last, make it last" they say
I say"**** my ****"