Post by Steve on Sept 24, 2005 7:24:25 GMT -5
(an excerpt from my journal)
july 20, `05
slinger shot me a dubb and the whole room was silent: the silence that follows when a cricket ceased fiddlin as you took a step towards `im. drama undertow throws these fish around tonight. sit and toke while awe struck looken through Klimts and finding no savior in christ we appoint gustav. his drunken eyes painting irish pale canvas, glistening fingers guide and glide along the shaft, manipulating the horse hair tip.
there's no celebration here
the clowns are all in the garden picking rosemarie with frail/driedpasta-bone fingers like mandibles, all white faced drunk-sick spitting wild flowers when they talk and mountain springs-water when they cry.
there's no celebrration here
my irish angel changed the locks on the doors, i can see her silhouette on the curtains-herredhairfallingdangerouslyonhershoulderstricklingdownoverwhitetanktopiceblueeyes
iknowshe'ssittingthere-
the girl from ghanna has gold earrings
her skin thick and delicious-on a greyhound goin to ohio
for a couple months-give her a hug
and she smiles.
a boo-kae;
projector casting poems
there's a candle in the corner where the young boy waits
young girl better hurry
`fore the night ages anymore
loud door; sirens spasm midnight tremors epileptic lights foreground of a
cloudless sky;
draw the curtain tuxedo-man
its
closed.
july 20, `05
slinger shot me a dubb and the whole room was silent: the silence that follows when a cricket ceased fiddlin as you took a step towards `im. drama undertow throws these fish around tonight. sit and toke while awe struck looken through Klimts and finding no savior in christ we appoint gustav. his drunken eyes painting irish pale canvas, glistening fingers guide and glide along the shaft, manipulating the horse hair tip.
there's no celebration here
the clowns are all in the garden picking rosemarie with frail/driedpasta-bone fingers like mandibles, all white faced drunk-sick spitting wild flowers when they talk and mountain springs-water when they cry.
there's no celebrration here
my irish angel changed the locks on the doors, i can see her silhouette on the curtains-herredhairfallingdangerouslyonhershoulderstricklingdownoverwhitetanktopiceblueeyes
iknowshe'ssittingthere-
the girl from ghanna has gold earrings
her skin thick and delicious-on a greyhound goin to ohio
for a couple months-give her a hug
and she smiles.
a boo-kae;
projector casting poems
there's a candle in the corner where the young boy waits
young girl better hurry
`fore the night ages anymore
loud door; sirens spasm midnight tremors epileptic lights foreground of a
cloudless sky;
draw the curtain tuxedo-man
its
closed.