sandmanno3

Downtown /outo fshell/                             Oh DADDY- -It's suffrage on the muhdah rate/                            Salt L a dy; Skin heads hands legs dnA Roller Blades                             "Its TRUE" the s(umm)er time reeks of their Hayr                              (go (home) Lady

"She started to sing, rejoicing in the fact     that God had chosen her for                       this task - the ideal woman" She makes chairs, comfortable chairs, chairs for side-order dreamers.               She spends days and hours of finger foreplay,  tasting the wood with her calluses,                puts all the splinters in her wallet

You're chin is a grammatical error because I know your smile could be so much wider, so much more punctual. Smiles like awkward teen question marks, grins like merry-go-round commas. Pursed lips like passion fruit periods, Finish my sentence.

If You Do Them Right, She Won't Call you by your own name. This is as close as you get to Holy, Answer her prayers. "Oh. God." You learn to love the new title.

I fell In love            once. Or twice, but        the double jointed hands of time aren't counting, fingerless as is.             I fell out of love more times          than i've remembered one night stands and the fists of time unroll into                             neon arrows and nominate me a

You see, my problem is that I Use the delete button more than the actual alphabet and I grind erasers like teeth in my sleep. And if I used a quill pen It would leave me for coke bottle sunsets and seashore stores. The snow says nothing when it hits the ground and refuses to scream when it melts.

Love poems are best written In Brail. Because when the lights go out on it all You won't be able to understand the point behind your metaphors. In fingertips, there is feeling.

I'm sort of alive in the confines of this deep fried dough glow, because I'm sort of re-living everything at once while staring at the sort of burning wreckage that we sort of inspired with a butane grimace and insidious whispers, because they sort of criticized the wrong set of disillusioned and grieving poets   who showed up too late and missed the last words of one of our own. They thought it was sort of funny to make jokes about the dead, like they were throwing rocks in a stagnant lake, but there are monsters in these waters, the likes that make capital punishment beg for mercy and make a light of something you made light of,

 They caught me at the scene of her crime with a shovel and a pine box,            broken clocks like wind chimes; shes a dramatic artist.              My obituary dates back to the birth of this disaster.

That hot chocolate mixed with coffee is pertinent and staying in bed may not have been as great as the rousing. These are mornings where the wind knocking your windows in is a handshake from a stranger you will meet later and you can smell the perfume on her neck within the prisms of dew. These are egg omelet and toast mornings, this is scratch your dogs head to make up for a week of work mornings. These are all new days within the four hours between 8 and twelve these are mornings who need no apologies for yawns, it welcomes them. These are mornings where couches go to work and. massage away the weekday commute and a presentation a