An age of milk shall blot the sun
in a cry for silence mankind shall prevail.
Many many times three, the Indian
flight of the bumblebee,
preening on prevention all the snooks
shall tie freedom to their loins.

One ended phone calls are much like suicide.
The cord wraps tighter around the neck and
words never spoken fail to choke the intended receiver.

I walked slow and ate the statues eye.
She cast me out and caught a bigger fish.
One that smiled like it should.
One that proved that I'm no good.

Shaman coats with question mark patches
lined the California boardwalk.
Afro intense, sarcastic game fighting.
Seriousness and adrenaline aside.
I'll find Anne Boleyn.
and fuck her body back together.

11/11/2008

Posted on 11/12/2008
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