As we slide across Thursday’s chilly exterior Our temples burrow under Peacoat bundles. Bohemian sunsets told in true colors Fold … More
“Give me cigarette burns.
Garments with old songs in their memory,
Sweat through from mosh pits
And blurry nights swinging hips in a hazy club,
I want to raise a collection of stories in textile color.”
It hangs sanguine on their necks like a clay verandah.
Their red splotches have a squeak for a namesake,
A remarkably insignificant rite of passage.
The journey of rediscovery is a lightless corridor with tracks
Still fresh from the time before.
The scent still rings in the air, from the bird of paradise
You’re trying to re-acquaint yourself with.
I wanted a big funeral.
I wanted to be remembered by thousands.
I wanted a full plate of many talents.
I have done well to make that so,
Becoming something with the breadth of an ocean
With the depth of a river creek.
It’s not what I bargained two decades for.
I close the door to the four floors where my tutorial.
From here on in, Imperial Decline used to take place there.
The stone and starry Monday night was riddled with penultimate milestones.
“But at the end of the day “sexy” is just a four letter word we shouldn’t give a fuck about.”
We know it, we don’t want to take our time with things.
Slow walkers are a baseball team, the NYC Pariahs
Take them to ball four every and you just sat through an inning on slow-mo.
Intuition provides all the sense one could need to go somersaulting
Into a circumstance beyond your wildest dreams.
A sudden trip to Shakespeare’s Globe,
A drum circle on the bank of the Thames lit up by fire-spinners,
An explosive street fight between gangs of different sweatshirt colors.
And that’s just one night of being tapped into the flow, with as many more to come as I have beats in my heart.