like knots on top of each other

By | 14 July 2009

folded fullmoon
just looking at the roof –
he will draw yet another telephone.
our tongues are maple syrup now
or unripe pineapple.
I think I should smoke,
a brown pelican.
white paint is medicine
but locomotive wind

it changed our song.

she is cheap motel moments,
a makeshift engine
to drain your lover completely.
people studied your poster
by faint candlelight;
that was before I burned them;
news headlines peeling,
though black & white TV
or doctored film,
at a terminal
the colour of god's hair

you must be so hungry.

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