As we slide across Thursday’s chilly exterior Our temples burrow under Peacoat bundles. Bohemian sunsets told in true colors Fold…
“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.
The Fitzgerald of three years ago still feels so close,
But somehow everything found it’s way back to me then.
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.
I will evict my inner fascination with the box everyone wants me to step into
From the corners of my utterly beautiful mind.
“But at the end of the day “sexy” is just a four letter word we shouldn’t give a fuck about.”
Please, sweet friends I haven’t met yet,
Allow me to re-introduce myself.