Saturday, March 27, 2010

Colder Than A Well Digger's Ass

"My blind faith in the muse is what has been getting me to sleep at might."

I remember the night you uttered those words that touched me so sweetly like a brick to the nose.

Foolishly, I told you all about my dreams last night and you laughed at my despair. Once, I saw you in my clouded heart and I realized there was nothing equivalent to this.

My enemies are getting uglier with time and I've butchered all the past catch phrases I could. The palm tree tops blow in the angry breeze of a hurricane that will again pass as a black widow crawls across my face looking for an entrance into my electric brain.

Everyday for decades I used to write letters to the man I was told handed out happiness, asking him for a bit. He just sent me stained and malformed geometric puzzles.

There are 420 degrees of pronunciation and we'll always be left to wander about the strange man of last week. Our commissioned heroes have returned for their tulips and they ask repeatedly about the distinct smell of rose that fills their heads every time they say your name.

(taken from Love Is A Ghost Thing. Published by Publish America.)

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