his eyes are like honeysuckles. quietly lying on the couch watching washed up comics, he laughs, and I laugh in spite of myself. his hair, long hair, dangling over the edge of the couch.
words like distance and vulgarities and perhaps a little bit of mocha Kahlua cream topped vengeance, just enough vengeance as to not taste salty ocean air that is imaginary in this caught up world. hey dumb TV sitcom let me pollute my lip liner and tear ducts with the impotence of your unimagined delirium. white monkey, gold monkey, purple monkey too. words like - novels, written in backward languages on seaside cliffs where brunettes gyrate there insides onto sparkled rocks and men drink whiskey dashed with sides of laughter.
he wrote me the last letter ten weeks before my banana split ate itself out of the fridge and into the diplomatic fruit bowl. ten weeks which equals just too many days for me to not be able to successfully count the calendar on my lilac painted fingernails. you see without a coca cola calculator and a delicious man lying on the couch massaging his ever so perfect nose i am unable to take the tempting time to translate hours. yes, a nose can be ever so perfect, although my mind never thought such a man-made birthed creation existed in a form other than chocolate covered stale cardboard museum structures.
weird words. word.
comma splices and shit.
grammar do me like New Orleans delta date nights, like soul singers on tight ropes and freedom fighters fighting fire hydrants, god bless the police. because grammar, i certainly can’t do you. no, i cant manoeuvre your sunshine ways or techniques that mesmerize the literary world, unfortunately you must mount my mountainous lack of lustrous library politics and feel, feel, feel like doing me backwards, forwards, inside out circus manipulator clown glowing firefly mannequin twisted tail story movements.
till i sing, when i sang, even better – when he sang the blues.