I'm dreaming of a girl
with lips like
cranberry-juice-sipped-slow
over ice cubes in the summer
and sunlight in her eyes.
With hair as dark as midnight promises
and hands like blooming lilies
floating on the water.
I'm dreaming of a boy
with moonlight in his thoughts
and rivers in his words
stark against the silences
of greater things.
When we three will wander
down through buried hills
of steel and stone
and laugh, we laugh
at yellow-iron giraffes
tearing at the earth
with their metal mouths;
such gentle kisses man
bestows upon his mother.















Comments
with moonlight in his thoughts
and rivers in his words
stark against the silences
of greater things.
I like that. Keep writing. Stop touching.
--
They won't let you borrow any of the art, but they get so mad when you sit down and start touching yourself there.
--
They won't let you borrow any of the art, but they get so mad when you sit down and start touching yourself there.
but that's just me.
--
Holy rising hemlines, Batman!
--
I SPIT upon this mad, crazed world! I SPIT upon the Second Law of Thermodynamics!
I kinda wish I didn't know how.
--
I SPIT upon this mad, crazed world! I SPIT upon the Second Law of Thermodynamics!
--
They won't let you borrow any of the art, but they get so mad when you sit down and start touching yourself there.
--
I SPIT upon this mad, crazed world! I SPIT upon the Second Law of Thermodynamics!
--
They won't let you borrow any of the art, but they get so mad when you sit down and start touching yourself there.
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