Pool poor blue with the smell of candy canes and clorox, there’s been three fights in the last two weeks. Music crying like the death of people, chanting people, money fool prophets, colorful ideas of lingerie. The 2 dollar ice cream, melting like dreams in the sunshine. Pastel blues that fill the sky and return you to diluted love again, perhaps everyone forgot to keep their minds, and they all trash each other. Lately all I do is worry, interesting hours paper cut moons and moods; seven bruises like planets. Lonesomeness we tender flower carry in car music lightness, all over America. My resolutions are never new, Black Canyon hollowness, beauty in serene, Colorado color my dreams.
Meet me in the pine sparks, then meet me on the East. The empty skies that lay like indigo lilies, acres of plain lands that golden-beige solitude, I think I wanted to free myself and become a worker, poets have no money, no fame, poets are sitting in chance rooms like laughing flowers telling bad jokes to themselves and anyone who listens, and they say everything is payed with love. But where is it? Nightingale zodiacs, death that smells like a burnt wish, lithium crushed anxieties, parasitic paradise with sugary coated miseries. I am experimenting with your bird drugs, wholesome poison. Everything is political they say, everything is like a religion, a hell of poets that became ideas. And my mental state riding on the back of a cockroach silver-lined, gentleman-like with dirt. An interwet vacancy of surrendering, a whole new nakedness.
Does it mean we pay in elctro-currencies now. Will you laugh when your cats dies alabaster colorlessness, love is a nuclear war in my light concussion I walk ghastly in the rudeness of the sidewalks. Everyone was a young hustler unemotionally deranged and exclusively illusive. Vague as open-stretched heart gates, penis-drawings, and crushes. Sort circuit-control, hide your eyes when you dream, one more bullet that is now tangled into guitar strings against a red canvas. Yahay yage romantic murder, I point my fingers into the ceiling but I am laying face down and ass up. The difference between coolnessness, who are you branded glassy eyed, pope-dope; five blocks and scoring. Heroin to alcohol, always take the first shot and you won’t die. Glamorous products, things that say buy or you will be sick; another migraine press conference junk that spanks you like a baby.
I am addicted to kiss, hooked on something. Money is like toilet paper but you need to wipe your ass, life on a toilet seat. Harsh lungs now, a whole life lived in flames. Methadone-drone shooting blood paintings, you never sleep anymore your handguns snubby we shake like snakes in a bed you are loaded as it. A silencer I wanted to keep for the silence of sleep, and memory of trees, that brush like fairytales. Let me reach in for the poison. Everyone likes the bang. Everyone likes the bang. Rage fascination and love’s assassination. I who have forgotten to love have became empty as them. Uproot my madness once again, blood in my veins to sing in refrain for I wish not to lose the innocence in me, flower blooming arousal-erotic bezno-nite. Flood through me like melody, death wears longing strange fruit from sun clouds. Eerie green that says all envy what dances so freely and those poets they curse their pain that is existence of brave. I gathered a bed of white orchids, silken like your body be-for bathing in absent desire.
Your teeth broken tiles, scars that run deeper than gold mines, I mined paradise out of your eyes. Serpentine kiss of Valentine, one fuck memories to solitary dancers that weep with star-ridden lights which cut fears into illusions and keep dreamers sane. But I have given my name to become another, twice born I learned to not know what is faith. My hand inside the ice bucket of the clouds beneath your heart. Under the pink rose of the heat I devoured the ice of your solitary fixation; that was the high in me when I could no longer cry or sleep. Music-organs that breath back magic still distort us like we are open, and the largeness of strangeness will devour our longing forcefully violent as nature. And I am skinless haunted by the wind that howls, breaths like love, pain and love. Love and pain.
There's always madness against the soft deceit of a blueish sky, without it you need no memories but the ones you told without disguise. I fall down in a web of deceit, my own realm unknown.. I fade into a kiss that I cannot carry into the night. Two, three different lips that say this is where I should go. I surrender to all my darkest sins climbing a vine to heaven, drowning into your violent sea and a caress of your hand emerges a demon out of me. Poison me as long as you have a cure. And you’ll settle to mediocracy supplying pussy wet, pussy bet anxiety. When you are drained it is for the reasons you are not using the madness but the oppression of others. Permission is non satisfactory, sin is like heaven. In my head shadow-land, dystopian in my heart regardless of what is bright. Pissing on the reaperbahn, sex-media life-show, girls crying in front of neon with deteriorating looks boys say is fashionable.
No wonder there’s no great music or some movement as everything is attached all poets surrendered to corpses and shams, mixmedia smut without a movement, it is all sedated like the warmness of Los Angeles and tucked under the throats of candy coated nightmares, homelessness and lost prophets. I cannot salut even my friends they too have failed there’s glitter gutter images, you say you believe in the violence of love but you are stopped by hounds. You are not the quaint riot, filled with emotion as I thought you were braver now you have weakened. And some cunt is gonna spread it like it’s punk rock, there’s none of that in their bones. And some jerks gonna say they love cats and not cry about the wars, and it all doesn’t matter close your eyes. The silence is in the sameness, filth and no poetry, no music, no voice, just dirty fishnets and we all live on little TV's selling skin for free.
My skin tastes like snow, my hair is dark like brave sonnets, my eyes you cannot yet know. Romantically inclined tragically declined. In another dream I was you and you were me. You’re still doing all the stupid things you said your daddy use to do, and now you’re the same fool. There's beauty it flows from surrender the kind untamed and you cannot keep it as you have over-come it, fingers that press in flesh sensible and like light you chase a starless dream. I bend like music, cover your mouth and feed your dreams in kisses. All who are betrayed by settling hearts are at the end of the day breaking happiness into fierce tension, thinking of other touch. Those eyes they cannot find. Those eyes they cannot have.
No body can talk you out of using, no body.. life’s a killer, maybe you’ll swallow gasoline. It could be at any time these urges comes back, we substitute feelys with some strange religion. My gay priest said there’s no where one can go, a sorry state. We seem to be always sick and he says “Are you holding” well I got nothing, just company an art work of flowers. We end up walking knowing old neighborhoods, rocking rehabs, dead friends, just tattoo hours of lovers on high o’clock noon benzo-erotic. Hassle shakers, with guns through a donut hole. My face fallen off my bones into the two sunny side up eggs, pastel blues say I love you like a slap in the face. Put on your good shoes and own up baby, I do I’m an asshole and so are you.
Systematically right wingers drug hysteria police problem solutions. Philosopher prophets that turned our nightmares into songs, black cats I collected from rainy street corners of Los Angeles alley ways. They said poets were bad news, but you never read the paper? Ha drill some more holes, drag jobs, rent money, leather coats that say you guys are still punk logic. Forevers are so long, street life romance no regular no chance. Nada, but crazy to say we can spend nights like kings. Because now we gotta go, “I wish I could win you back” says the sweet one sharpening knives for a living. Saddened by passing hours and flowers in Korean restaurant windows. We walk like old people when broken down, worn out like “god bless you my son may you go to heaven.” I look up at the sky stars filing the blackness of unkept promises. Superstitions are real. Keep me alive. Super high.