Tuesday, April 5, 2016


My skin is akin to the soup of a
fish and I often walk sideways 
through time : effervescent fun
and games, the priest in the hallows,
the little kid with the pop gun in
his mouth. Sly, I put a Slinky on the
stairs just to watch my Grandma fly.
This here notebook's no longer good :
the pages are water-soaked, midget-tears
and stuff from my eyes. I can't see the
misguided missile you've sent my way.
To crash-land in Slovakia, or land on
the edge of some Irish Sea. Trains,
and planes, and automobiles.
'You won't get a picture like this, ever
again.' You said that while looking at a
photo of three people, now each dead.
Well, I had to figure, what else could you
expect? This door goes both ways. We live
and then we die; we wake and then we sleep.
You know how they yell you, in school,
that all things will be OK if you'll just
sit down and shut up? That is such crap :
erroneous pulchritude to whitewash the
dogs in the very dark room where your
mind always lives. The shadowy place
where dreams and all memories dwell.
I love you forever. Heaven or Hell;
and we both can accommodate the 
feel of each our heart's swell.
However the magic elixir goes down, I
say drink it. Flaming, if that's how you
like. In a beer stein, the kind with the
lid and the flip-top thing for the thumb.
It opens the top, so you can drink, with 
some variously-colored Fraulein on the
mug itself  -  art for the masses, or a 
drink for the asses. Men don't make
passes on girls who use glasses.

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