If a man were unsure of his insides
how could he truly just drift away?
"Just grab something?"
The wild stain of the spinning wheel
again and again, it's all what we want-
(or something) miles of the intimate illusions
of eternity, perplexities, cubicles, cuticles...
I appreciate your ambition, but is
any conversation quite that improvable?
Captivation's charming convulsions:
("I'm sorry, but I seem not to care.")
no native love of fire
no cynical salted sunlight
shy sunbasked chameleons perspiring enchantingly
high-spirited winged artichokes
have seemingly cracked the code of time
and have - in all good consciousness -
become a salty happy hour appetizer
all rationality aside, would you rather just not meet?
all those boys want to do is twirl your hair,
I assure you; you simply do not want to end up
in love with vacancy, certainly not pregnant with vacancy
Nothing, compared to the gaps
between the fingers of your outstretched hand,
silhouetting the sky, the sun, the moon,
the chandelier
those clouds are metaphorical, sugar
In darkness, death - with only raw almonds and jazz -
created time, and time - with nothing but darkness
and muffled jazz - created life (possibly out of frustration),
to muffle the muffled jazz, and salt the entirety of perception.
