You smell like cocaine and butterflies
You taste like brownies and knives
You feel like boys broad backs and oil spills
You look like breasts and cherry soda
You sound like congressmen and French women
You are a chemical impossibility
Who are you.
Who wants to come over?
We can paint our nails with pastel colors
and experiment with our hair.
We can plan trips to places we’ll never go
and then bake brownies.
We can tell stories we’ve both already memorized by heart
and act like they’re new ones.
We can laugh at nothing
and comment on how soft my old blanket is.
We can go through my closet
and create sexy outfits
and wear them out because we’re both a little too self conscious to wear them to school.
We can get pretty for each other
and go through a random box of stuff in my parents closet.
We can plan an elegant dinner just for us
and dress up like fairies.
We can make jewelry with the little plastic beads I still have from when I was a kid.
We can be cliche and stupid.
We can be happy.
Maybe another day.
Braided hair on her drugged up head
mind full of sunshine
fields open to play
never wore no shoes
nothing got between her and "mother"
set on intuition
life was her shining possesion
Nothing but a simple boy
trouble aint what he was after
but it seemed to be after him
into it with the law
always talked about "the fucked pigs"
silently systematic in his ways
life was a puzzle to be figured
they went together
in the way that parents loved the children
then the children ran away
and they built a commune downfield
on a old country rainy day
People moved in from far and near
never stopped to think what was going on
this "peace and love" facility wasn't what it seemed
the breeding ground of two manipulative sociopaths
intent on feeding lies in pot brownies and oil lamps
the people listen to the leaders
with no thoughts in their eyes
not a sparkle
not a glimmer
not a hope or a faint light
The runaways they were called
it was like Jonestown and Woodstock got together
but the Kool-Aid wasn't the problem
it was the musical stylings
preached verse beyond verse of subliminal death
the runaways killed the commune
so they could be the only two left
It's a love story of sorts
a sadistic tale of love and cohorts
banding together with the intent of murder
the girl wanted trouble
the boy had never heard her
they went together like adam and helen
pure joy and motives
it was a story of love
and a story of loves gifts