I want to lasso the moon and give it to you on a gold platter.
There’s often too much happening for people to s-l-o-w down and respect the atomic mushroom cloud that has become their lives.
It’s one excuse after another and I wish when someone was mad at me they’d come clean and stop pitying me like Judy Garland in Judgment at Nuremberg.
I’m a torch poet which is vastly different than a torch singer. I don’t inject anything into my body because needles have always been a point of contention for me.
The point is I desire to view you when you’re exiting the bath and I’m losing my mind in the folds of your inked skin.
Sometimes I feel like you’re my only cheerleader left as my poetry goes the way of the dinosaurs and an asteroid shows us exactly who is boss.
I believe we were created at the time of the Big Bang when all the kids were doing the twist and rainstorms in our minds left us devoid of purpose or passion.
We hung on for a millennium or two because we knew lost souls like us would someday come back into vogue.
I need to kiss your Scottish mouth with everything I got before it gets too late and dawn mocks us for coming unprepared.
Doug is drinking more and more water which makes me feel so helpless and unstitched in these days of grape juice not from concentrate and prickly flowers you’re better off smelling with your eyes.
I love you and when I say that think of it as three words included in your lunchbox that becomes a sanctuary in that mailroom environment.
It’s one excuse after the next and before you know it all the black and white movies in existence cannot bring us back from the dead. The black hole had so much more color than I ever could have imagined as we held hands and the void drank us into infinity.
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