half asleep talk

[godheadstyle]

her figure eight flesh, is the humming pavement on a drowsy weekend night.
its his chapped lips, and dry tongue lashing thoughtful, but half true words.
so many lackluster evenings bathing alone, sitting in ones clean filth.

candles flicker, and when it does, they will watch the dust dance.
falling, finding a place to rest, and eventually die.

it's the tanks rolling in, with an overstock of deoderant and fishing lines.
the winter hit hard, the summer misses gently, and somewhere inbetweein is autumn and spring.

fingernails are dead protein? i still think my hair is harnessing my brain, like a baby holds a mother.

fuck this.
loud knocks
and buffalo chicks.

thanks
xoxo