Painting over shapes left by shadows, I steal the night away from the sandman. Pealing open another can of sawdust and slicing up the cantelope. Your memory is ruin in distant substances that run throughout this desert lapped up by sage and disciplined intention to forget your sorry sourful wains as alfalfa sinister banter on the breezes dipped in prairie dog rumbles. I hope you wake up in a sweatsister, sick in tons of brie and peppered shindigs that left you long before those shoes walked into home goods. I believe you never meant to do a thing on your own, but whisper dearly in the earlob of one that wants nothing to do with you. I can save the skin of this cantelope, but the meat is already done for me.
Posted on: Wed, 25 Sep 2013 06:56:01 +0000
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