"you ink your face with halogen" you ink your face with halogen a balloon writes elegies a poem cannot wait autumn ignites stars we touch in ether and speak Enochian a violet cat offers bread we enter the street's love story.
"far away but surely, death's song at the door" far away but surely, death's song at the door; turned insane by love, the man bent down to collect shadows of snails. at the beach you may meet my ghost and we'll quiz each other on Tolstoy in the cup of my hands I hold the night's glory shadows, shadows all about light hides among the sparrow's wings in the war my head explodes the city breathes a thaumaturgic eagle; a lonely bat looks for solace in the ruins,
"at night I roam with Jibanananda" at night I roam with Jibanananda (my feline malaise) touching the fabric of a melancholy tune I catapult a word to its destiny my heart is an Eskimo I need an audience for my madness all we have is this operatic winter night.
SOMEDAY Someday we will go On a trip across the night Where white lily blooms Will sing a song of the cyclone
Two impatient hearts Two vagabond heads Folded in our pockets And the sound of our own voices
We are a full-time dreamer Ocean clouds only know our dreams Voices of broken guitar and violin Dark locks of the night Today is Saturday, day after tomorrow On Monday night We are going for a poetry meet Wordless poems, what this night needs…
This is how it works. You order another Grand Marnier on the dime of that rich old guy who says he runs the studio where Alice Mutton recorded their latest album and when you fade back in it’s foggy, you’re outside, and two violinists stand over you, recite the Nicene Creed until you, too, think you believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church.
It’s when you get up and walk home you realize these guys are with you for good, and there are only so many reels your head can process before you need to sleep the sleep of the spray-tanned sailor. At the risk of being seen a walnut, you ask, in as polite a tone as you can muster, if your new friends might cease and desist, at least till cockcrow, but they just switch to a narcocorrido ballad, vocals in something that may resemble broken Spanish in some alternate universe. When Alice Mutton’s drummer pulls up, even if he’s wasted enough to see nickels on every dime, you dive in, beg him to floor it, destination Braşov, Paris, the final patch of Oblivion-surrounded earth at the end of the world, anywhere but here.
HOME IMPROVEMENT The clink in the basement might be a leaky pipe or a loose piece of glass caught in a sporadic draft. The Derby favorite might look sore in the post parade because he needs to warm up a little more. Your bank might have sent that email because they do indeed care about the safety of your personal information. Perhaps the cult nailed the carcasses to your door for protection. He’s from the government, and he’s here to help you. The green on the cheese is just a rind. It’s got a 0% rating at Rotten Tomatoes because critics don’t understand art. The editor hasn’t responded because the work is still under consideration. Your favorite knife isn’t in the block because it’s still somewhere in the dishwasher.