19

peeling sweet tarts and
sour straws from your finger
tips, saving them
for later to eat
with your delusion.

mixing narcotics with
a shot of gin for the
full effect of nothing-
ness and ecstatic
reverential illusion.

words go on and thus
go and continue to go
until they've landed on the
window sill
and started their
diffusion.

ubiquitous forgetting
about the state of your
everlasting and unfortunately
named
orgiastic confusion.

telling all the secrets
we've got kept inside our
lockers waiting
for the biblical announcement
for our physical
infusion.

tell me something though.

if i could tie a rope to the
winds of your tornado and
pull your safe-space into
my place,
would you give me
your entirety as a
monastic conclusion?

time has told me that
i hurt a little,
but you hurt a little
too; i'll do anything for
you, write anything for you
to
be my resolution.

i think it's why i'm not a
painter, see, for all the
youthful wonderings i could
art-ify are too hard to
find within the
skyscrapers of your
highly romantic
allusions.