2017-08-28 00:34:02 UTC
And I am shoved back into this night life.
Well, she said, she said, she said it was impossible.
There is a place, it smoulders, it is the past, dreamtime,
wander these dark corridors of memory.
I sleep so deep, I don't like to sleep,
my dreams threaten to take me away.
Floating in a sea of bad vibes, I do these things over and over,
repentatively, feel regret but keep doing it over and over.
Then the whole thing becomes a blur.
Grey and pasted, patched together with spackling
and sheet rock mud, a disgusted perversion of humanity.
During the decline and fall of poetry, in the summer of sardonic excess,
I sat with Little Spain on her steps, and felt her softness.
Still a sky poet, though tattered and glowing,
brought down from Blue Territory, no longer in Blue Territory.
I wandered by a cold river in the flaming copper land of summer.
This complete process of remaking we had, your mix of pales and shades,
your, distinctive, mythic self, one distinct sing of your eyes...
I must bitterly understand our fate, we were never meant to be,
Like lost in the mirrored rooms of a crazy house.
Crimson on the napkins,
pink fuzz on the clover.
Maneuver to the left, and forward,
into a mud soaked future.
Note: Repentatively is not a typo or misspelled word, it means "to feel regret but to keep doing something over and over."