I prefer to have a heart of fire.
That's now how it goes, but it's not how it rolls, it rolls like a love off a tongue, but what was a love doing on a tongue in the first place? It's a wonder. Turning over, onto its back, beckoning biting nibbling needing--deficient, somehow. It is my fault, I know.
And it is my fault that the love doesn't roll off the tongue when the eyes are locked and the opportunity as there as it's ever going to be. Opportunity to confess and fail to have previously established some semblance of radicality so as to ensure success, and by success I mean closure, entrapment. Something, of some sort. A thing of a sort.
A cat in a bag, pawing at a bag, clawing her way out of the bag. For what? No sunshine--whether here or gone. Both at once, possibly. What am I jumbling for when it all chalks in the end up to nothingness, and by nothingness I mean again Failure, of a kind. But never-we-mind. It's unimportant. The busy bees are that what's important. Why further our neglect?
A little sigh. The royal we. The eyes turning in for the night, rolling back into my head, rolling up in a veiny bed. What for, crows the weather vane. What for what for! Why and what the hell for? The hop of the cat, the buck of the pony, the bike-cycling through and through, the bike-cycling all my way to you.
STAY OUT OF THERE screams it. But its screams freezes our blood so our hands hesitate on the knob, greasy golden copper germ-resistant doorknob. For Christ's sake, for Pete's sake, for Judas' too sake: slake this thirst! If only for the sole sake of slaking.
And it is my fault that the love doesn't roll off the tongue when the eyes are locked and the opportunity as there as it's ever going to be. Opportunity to confess and fail to have previously established some semblance of radicality so as to ensure success, and by success I mean closure, entrapment. Something, of some sort. A thing of a sort.
A cat in a bag, pawing at a bag, clawing her way out of the bag. For what? No sunshine--whether here or gone. Both at once, possibly. What am I jumbling for when it all chalks in the end up to nothingness, and by nothingness I mean again Failure, of a kind. But never-we-mind. It's unimportant. The busy bees are that what's important. Why further our neglect?
A little sigh. The royal we. The eyes turning in for the night, rolling back into my head, rolling up in a veiny bed. What for, crows the weather vane. What for what for! Why and what the hell for? The hop of the cat, the buck of the pony, the bike-cycling through and through, the bike-cycling all my way to you.
STAY OUT OF THERE screams it. But its screams freezes our blood so our hands hesitate on the knob, greasy golden copper germ-resistant doorknob. For Christ's sake, for Pete's sake, for Judas' too sake: slake this thirst! If only for the sole sake of slaking.