I got a pair of wings for my birthday, baby
and I will fall down through the sun this evening
And in this halflight I wander, dirty little notes to women stacked thin in my trousers. Some dew-called-gong wailing vacantly of the what-ifs and ands of separate expenditures. Sometimes I find ungodly gods grazing at the pedestal, wearied of the born objects I have not belonged them.
We suck veins like thunderclap violence gaining winsome curves in thronged hip-length faces. Come cunts and mangle, utterly compact and untried as pleasant contentedness. So we queue. Frustrated in the unbecoming attics ventured through, crept like arboreal pangs of ileic roots.
And i'll sleep tonight in dreams. Dreams of memories sucked from sentimental sepia of what has and hasn't poured through the loom. I'll hurm and groan the life catching us up.
Canada sleeps in the hills tonight, a glow-violet softlight of fever-bliss, and soon I won't be able to carry you anymore, through the salt sea, in the deafening dark, late in the wan night when the strangeness hits us. Nothing much ever will. No fountains of pens and leaded papers strung ink-tied-tethered gone wrapping sing-song live here, but in that venetian silk-violet violence, that old dedicated winsome blow, there's dance and light and life and lavender-cold carols of the tundra-ic cotton calm. Come on down, love, come sink in and settle and suck in the mud, the great grey earth worn lively and lovely, sonnet swooned.
It's this mercury glass that spends us of common syllabic speech, roughing our edges to needle-point appendages, all fingers and toes tasting the umamic lips of others' skin. Such uncommon commodities, these souls, brown-lit sweet lights swinging slow-stamped in scuffling breezes, and all you do is say they sway
And we're all white against the gloaming, our own salt-fired-slips born like tapers through gathering storms whipping six eyelashes cyclonic.
Another pride of lost last wishes.
Another curve of subtle shade and laughable joyed love.