Tell the

world, in bright white light and pink rainbow dots..that the end is here and the sandman is queer. Though not to he point of checkered ties and well creased suits; more of to the annex of his mind being churned and burned with thoughts of mocha latte on the edge of some ex lover's French balcony.

Old hands hold wrinkled sin..the type that burns with the smell of cigarette on grey moustaches. Poker faces, and droll voices; to what do I owe this old time rhyme? To you, the thoughts that disintegrate UV ray shields. To who, the epitome of highlighted lists, the cream of course of the crop.

To the skin that never settles..for more, for less, or down.

He has the courtesy to leave her old linen sheets bare, spotless after the old maid tidies them off at mr. Ching's. Drycleaners are efficient, whistlers are endearing.

No poetry leaves the soul stained with red wine..red wine is taken and licked and swept off by the fingers' tips, onto dry lips and fueled souls..all the while with hungry hands on nimble hips. A glass lies sleepily, on the windowsill.

To who does this last drop come Home? Watching, slowly, as the Sky laughs white wine..hopefully, as they fall onto the white washed walls, onto oak doors and chalky asphalt. How lazy, the sound of white wine..unfinished, yet so completely absolute.

Remind me, again, of how it should be caked and topped off..with chocolate fountain lips. You, not you..and never you. Though, quite possibly, you?

Remind me, again, of how it is to make sense..though the rush of random keys keys keys and words that stick to your skin and fill your blood..mmm


| {8:08 PM}