when you are my siamese twin of safety for the night and i turn to the left and it's you and somehow it's as if we had always been together this way and somehow i forget your name
who caress
when with no human words for each other, only the glow of the splendor in the smoked grass, when i look upon your dewy lamb's face and not see you tall but see both our spirits so small in this big place
who caress
when we make strange on the sheets (it's called ostranenie in russian but my gyno won't tell me that) and we fail to notice skin against skin and the most intimate time is seeing your eyelashes flutter in your sleep
who caress
it's your guess
21.11.09
9.11.09
Sins
I lost the sins to a cycle
to a city, to an indistinct
body of holy water.
You can love anything.
You can drown in anything.
Pounds of pressure for the eyes.
Floating down
slowly and presently.
The vapors of history
making clouds above
the water above my head,
obscuring the heavens and
flooding future rivers.
With an olive branch
to feel my way
around the ocean floor
looking for peace.
to a city, to an indistinct
body of holy water.
You can love anything.
You can drown in anything.
Pounds of pressure for the eyes.
Floating down
slowly and presently.
The vapors of history
making clouds above
the water above my head,
obscuring the heavens and
flooding future rivers.
With an olive branch
to feel my way
around the ocean floor
looking for peace.
8.11.09
chicken slaughter
Look at yoooou, little chicken.
My sweet honey pie
Best lay-er of the co'
I'd hug and squeeze you close to me
But it's time for you to go.
I clamped your silky feathers to the ground
As I gave you a taste of the sweet knife.
Blood and iron mix, the air is wet, permeated.
The shudder snuffs out your life.
The petticoats of feathers stick to skin, gummy and thin
As if removing them was not meant to be.
Long neck a slithering member
I reach in and tear out this visceral animal.
Skinny and pink now, shaking a little in death
You're strange and disgusting to me (that face, beak silenced, caked in blood)
I throw you on the heap with the rest of them
Pale pink, stiff, plump and protrusive.
And all the while little Nikita cries.
My sweet honey pie
Best lay-er of the co'
I'd hug and squeeze you close to me
But it's time for you to go.
I clamped your silky feathers to the ground
As I gave you a taste of the sweet knife.
Blood and iron mix, the air is wet, permeated.
The shudder snuffs out your life.
The petticoats of feathers stick to skin, gummy and thin
As if removing them was not meant to be.
Long neck a slithering member
I reach in and tear out this visceral animal.
Skinny and pink now, shaking a little in death
You're strange and disgusting to me (that face, beak silenced, caked in blood)
I throw you on the heap with the rest of them
Pale pink, stiff, plump and protrusive.
And all the while little Nikita cries.
7.11.09
angora rabbit (from the sounds we make the sounds we make when millions)
these children of God will work and play tonight, and sleep in beams, work in
droves, the way that you used to; and my silver hands, like functioning junctions
of arms will rust and fold over, the only way that I’m used to;
they told me when you grew up you’d,
be a forest fire, like it hadn’t been enough to tell me that when you grew up,
you’d run my soul to the ground, like that wasn’t enough.
wouldn’t it have been okay wouldn’t it have been enough wouldn’t
it have been okay?
dayenu.
all it takes is a second of silence wouldn’t it have been
enough to just quiet for a moment?
a second is enough, wouldn’t it have been okay;
wouldn’t it have been enough?
they told me you would be okay, like it hadn’t been enough
when you decided you’d be okay on your own.
qué fragilidad.
when you watch the mechanics of an aircraft
you see the sheer miracle in its consistency.
they say politicians should be consistent, firm, and educated
but all I want is balance.
droves, the way that you used to; and my silver hands, like functioning junctions
of arms will rust and fold over, the only way that I’m used to;
they told me when you grew up you’d,
be a forest fire, like it hadn’t been enough to tell me that when you grew up,
you’d run my soul to the ground, like that wasn’t enough.
wouldn’t it have been okay wouldn’t it have been enough wouldn’t
it have been okay?
dayenu.
all it takes is a second of silence wouldn’t it have been
enough to just quiet for a moment?
a second is enough, wouldn’t it have been okay;
wouldn’t it have been enough?
they told me you would be okay, like it hadn’t been enough
when you decided you’d be okay on your own.
qué fragilidad.
when you watch the mechanics of an aircraft
you see the sheer miracle in its consistency.
they say politicians should be consistent, firm, and educated
but all I want is balance.
6.11.09
Toxins
Bongsmoke, an acquired taste, I says to Samuel I says. Before you know it the water's cooled and the horizon's inverted into mourning. Coffee grounds now, heaped and quartered, a bitter American dream I've so maturely resigned myself to, practically scowling as I toss that painful Nicaraguan day-heat down my throat. The paraphenalia of our lives becomes dirty and internal as we age. With the skunk-thick smoke back, your plume drifted luridly past, I looked up and said hello.
5.11.09
"i love LA"
warped cold wood
stinging breeze, flowing past for no reason
a butterfly was shot down with a wingspan of 6-ft 5
a big problem, you could say
watch as i lounge - altar time
to free one's self from the grip of the girl who doesn't.
recognize your brilliance - Jude,
get the fuck out of there! she's going
to kill you - she's going to leave home, she does not
love you, whispering
"i love Los Angeles" while you decipher its creepy secrets,
you are ready for it to close up. talking on the phone, crying
for the people that she has not really lost but are
really waiting for, you darkest night
of infinite resignation,
fated, you resign,
indefinitely.
stinging breeze, flowing past for no reason
a butterfly was shot down with a wingspan of 6-ft 5
a big problem, you could say
watch as i lounge - altar time
to free one's self from the grip of the girl who doesn't.
recognize your brilliance - Jude,
get the fuck out of there! she's going
to kill you - she's going to leave home, she does not
love you, whispering
"i love Los Angeles" while you decipher its creepy secrets,
you are ready for it to close up. talking on the phone, crying
for the people that she has not really lost but are
really waiting for, you darkest night
of infinite resignation,
fated, you resign,
indefinitely.
3.11.09
28.10.09
best new music
The sun does not shine on; in Berkeley there is no sunrise.
Standing on rocks, in your basketball shoes,
whisper in a foreign air,
take off your country veil,
and drip your words in my ears.
Pop music is sad, and i love it so much
I'm your Billboard bottom bilge
a 5.0, not
a 0.9 even.
I have a hard time believing this is
all for nothing. I've been
walking up and down hills forever
searching for the sunrise.
In Oakland, when we emerged from the trash heaps your
face was alighted on the freeways of the area
and I threw a tennis ball down between the high
ways,
the weirdest sex life on earth would not take back
all the right moves I've made towards you.
When drunk I close my eyes and try to get the world
not to shake, the one star visible from my room,
the south star. what star is this? star me, kitten. i feel better almost already,
this building devoid of the kind of soft feline presence of Mexico.
Standing on rocks, in your basketball shoes,
whisper in a foreign air,
take off your country veil,
and drip your words in my ears.
Pop music is sad, and i love it so much
I'm your Billboard bottom bilge
a 5.0, not
a 0.9 even.
I have a hard time believing this is
all for nothing. I've been
walking up and down hills forever
searching for the sunrise.
In Oakland, when we emerged from the trash heaps your
face was alighted on the freeways of the area
and I threw a tennis ball down between the high
ways,
the weirdest sex life on earth would not take back
all the right moves I've made towards you.
When drunk I close my eyes and try to get the world
not to shake, the one star visible from my room,
the south star. what star is this? star me, kitten. i feel better almost already,
this building devoid of the kind of soft feline presence of Mexico.
25.10.09
aak
and the northern tropic was where the day began; “at noon it happens; the sun appears directly overhead. June solstice.” a wan grin betrays an austere chuckle, you still look a little like God. I’ve stilled mastery; the powers of human containment. (in all technicality, we are lying in tangents to people of power. to the tune of 23° 26’ 22” north of the equator) in all technicality I consider myself its sibling. yr understanding of perfection falls chiplessly but leaves a seemingly randomized dancetté; I am lizard tough skin. I am saw-teeth on a half-breed canvas. the tropic of Cancer, the northernmost point, has no manner of insulting what’s below. Capricorn’s a friend when it can be said/I embody perfection. infidelity. one day we can build a mechanical sun/one day my eyes will reflect you, and you still look a little like God. I suppose we can be similar; I am saw-teeth on a half-breed canvas with no flaws.
19.10.09
Sophisticated Problem
"lighters tend to walk away
with people, Alex."
there is a pause
"let's say our name at the
end of every sentence
when we speak, Alex."
-I'll try, Alex.
we have the same
name. she likes that.
it is her hook into my skull.
it is smoky chess and tug of war.
strength. strategy.
we must know each other
conquer each other
it is hard to see that when you are
stoned.
harder to see when you are
not.
we all hook each other to play
social.
there are people
strangers and friends
on mushrooms, on ecstasy,
of course on THC
and on other chemicals,
the lingo of which
will date too quickly
to immortalize
in ink.
they're a part of society. this
society. tin bomb shelters
from the conquest.
despite extensive small talk, I
really can’t tell how high they are.
or who's winning. or if anyone
wins.
in general, the room is
lighter-spark yellow.
my lighter
stolen, I figure,
maybe lost to the clutter-décor.
cavemen did not have this problem
upon domestication of fire:
“who has a lighter?”
what a sophisticated problem.
Alex and her friend
go outside to smoke
cigarettes, and some people
smoke inside anyway.
move on,
on to new people.
heavy and empty,
their talk is
cage-like
lead.
how I am
nor anything else.
but Bridget says,
based on seconds of nothing,
"you're a really nice person."
Rastaman tells me, though
I don’t believe him about the first part,
"she's a lesbian for sure." and
"there's too much dick in here."
I remember being in my
often empty backyard
of my rarely empty house
sucking off cigarettes and
brown-gray coffee
like teenagers do,
looking for inspiration
on who I ought
to be.
how did I end up
here with the street-hip
socialites of this building,
where trendy books,
semi-exotic candles,
strings of sky light
on the wall, and
my new lighter
all bear silent witness
to silent parties?
an announcement:
"you guys can
drink
the
beer.
that's what it's there for."
a rumble through the door
from the porch.
the hook
hooks deeper
Eric is here
dressed, inexplicably,
in a suit. He
does not know why
either, but he believes in it’s
cool unique (attention-hungry)
virtue.
"would I be a martyr
if I die?"
-you mean when you die
...you would be a martyr
Everything in her
apartment, number seven,
a result of so many
nothings.
a television turns on
it says:
with people, Alex."
there is a pause
"let's say our name at the
end of every sentence
when we speak, Alex."
-I'll try, Alex.
we have the same
name. she likes that.
it is her hook into my skull.
it is smoky chess and tug of war.
strength. strategy.
we must know each other
conquer each other
it is hard to see that when you are
stoned.
harder to see when you are
not.
we all hook each other to play
social.
there are people
strangers and friends
on mushrooms, on ecstasy,
of course on THC
and on other chemicals,
the lingo of which
will date too quickly
to immortalize
in ink.
they're a part of society. this
society. tin bomb shelters
from the conquest.
despite extensive small talk, I
really can’t tell how high they are.
or who's winning. or if anyone
wins.
in general, the room is
lighter-spark yellow.
my lighter
stolen, I figure,
maybe lost to the clutter-décor.
cavemen did not have this problem
upon domestication of fire:
“who has a lighter?”
what a sophisticated problem.
Alex and her friend
go outside to smoke
cigarettes, and some people
smoke inside anyway.
move on,
on to new people.
heavy and empty,
their talk is
cage-like
lead.
"how are you"I can't tell
"I haven't heard a word out of you."
"how are you"
“how are you”
how I am
nor anything else.
but Bridget says,
based on seconds of nothing,
"you're a really nice person."
Rastaman tells me, though
I don’t believe him about the first part,
"she's a lesbian for sure." and
"there's too much dick in here."
I remember being in my
often empty backyard
of my rarely empty house
sucking off cigarettes and
brown-gray coffee
like teenagers do,
looking for inspiration
on who I ought
to be.
how did I end up
here with the street-hip
socialites of this building,
where trendy books,
semi-exotic candles,
strings of sky light
on the wall, and
my new lighter
all bear silent witness
to silent parties?
an announcement:
"you guys can
drink
the
beer.
that's what it's there for."
a rumble through the door
from the porch.
the hook
hooks deeper
Eric is here
dressed, inexplicably,
in a suit. He
does not know why
either, but he believes in it’s
cool unique (attention-hungry)
virtue.
"would I be a martyr
if I die?"
-you mean when you die
...you would be a martyr
for suits
for the 40s
for blue Christmas lights
for matches on the coffee table
for unread books
for smoking on the porch
for "fuck it - I'll smoke where I want."
for a simple mess on the floor
for the artistry of pipe and bong glasswork
it all has worth.
Everything in her
apartment, number seven,
a result of so many
nothings.
a television turns on
it says:
nevertheless
most of the mass
in an atom
is in the nucleus.
the electrons are,
by comparison,
just bits
of
fluff.
atoms are mainly
empty space.
matter is composed
chiefly
of
nothing.
16.10.09
last night i dreamt i killed a bee
All my favourite poets are American,
that is to say,
brash, wild, reckless (you count).
I don't like to Kill either, so,
perhaps,
I should embark on that Most american of journeys and become
a Vegetarian.
But I'd
hate to miss out on anything.
that is to say,
brash, wild, reckless (you count).
I don't like to Kill either, so,
perhaps,
I should embark on that Most american of journeys and become
a Vegetarian.
But I'd
hate to miss out on anything.
8.10.09
pop music is sad
Don't Worry Baby - The Beach Boys
Let's Get Out Of This Country - Camera Obscura
That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore - The Smiths
No Children - The Mountain Goats
Mine's Not A High Horse - The Shins
Canada - Themselves & WHY?
Skinny Love - Bon Iver
Walkabout (ft. Noah Lennox) - Atlas Sound
Beach Comber - Real Estate
The Book Of Right-On - Joanna Newsom
Motion Picture Soundtrack - Radiohead
Let's Get Out Of This Country - Camera Obscura
That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore - The Smiths
No Children - The Mountain Goats
Mine's Not A High Horse - The Shins
Canada - Themselves & WHY?
Skinny Love - Bon Iver
Walkabout (ft. Noah Lennox) - Atlas Sound
Beach Comber - Real Estate
The Book Of Right-On - Joanna Newsom
Motion Picture Soundtrack - Radiohead
1.10.09
Semotics
Grace was a woman politicized
You could see it as she flew on by.
Everything she wore or displayed
Had a meaning beyond its humble frame.
Aqua eyeliner to the eyes – cosmeticism
Putting aside childish things – adultism
Baseball card clipped to the bike wheel – her nostalgia-ism
But there was a boy named Max with green eyes
He could build worlds with his lovelorn sighs
Grace had tattoos on her thighs and he loved them.
You could see it as she flew on by.
Everything she wore or displayed
Had a meaning beyond its humble frame.
Aqua eyeliner to the eyes – cosmeticism
Putting aside childish things – adultism
Baseball card clipped to the bike wheel – her nostalgia-ism
But there was a boy named Max with green eyes
He could build worlds with his lovelorn sighs
Grace had tattoos on her thighs and he loved them.
27.9.09
Tang
My eyes alight upon semi-permeable skin
in a lovely diary -
I'm trying to find
New York in her eyes
(in her eyes).
Washing down my skin and my sins,
in a foam container, lifted up
in pot smoke -
cupped inside
a lemon vial.
I've got more to say,
don't leave me alone.
I'm sore, and sure, today,
that I'll always measure you in rags.
Cold shore breathing,
In 'N Out on the banks of a dark Pacific wave.
Cut up sleeping,
In the dank basement of an old American store,
where they found the bones.
At the age of eighteen,
in a national park,
the bear took him in both paws,
and lay him down.
Kaleidoscopic in the back of my mind,
we started walking home,
we both smelled just like before,
the piercing tang
of petrichor.
in a lovely diary -
I'm trying to find
New York in her eyes
(in her eyes).
Washing down my skin and my sins,
in a foam container, lifted up
in pot smoke -
cupped inside
a lemon vial.
I've got more to say,
don't leave me alone.
I'm sore, and sure, today,
that I'll always measure you in rags.
Cold shore breathing,
In 'N Out on the banks of a dark Pacific wave.
Cut up sleeping,
In the dank basement of an old American store,
where they found the bones.
At the age of eighteen,
in a national park,
the bear took him in both paws,
and lay him down.
Kaleidoscopic in the back of my mind,
we started walking home,
we both smelled just like before,
the piercing tang
of petrichor.
2.9.09
Things
Aluminum foil, pen, half gram of tar
and travel-sized Listerine.
From the park bench he yelled
I've been living fuckloads today
and then laid his body down over the rails
meant to prevent the bums from sleeping
and to keep hookers on their heels.
For the next hour and a half
unable to tell if he slept well or at all
itching on denim to check his pockets
for his shit, Leland
of East Jesus Inland Empire waited for
some literary salvation.
A few games with the boys;
company's promotional frisbee;
Drew's hacky sac.
All punctuated by cigarette breaks.
Adam had a 32oz in a pure brown bag.
Thomas had an orange sneak-a-toke too.
And you and them and I
won’t know what to experience
until we’ve lived fuckloads.
and travel-sized Listerine.
From the park bench he yelled
I've been living fuckloads today
and then laid his body down over the rails
meant to prevent the bums from sleeping
and to keep hookers on their heels.
For the next hour and a half
unable to tell if he slept well or at all
itching on denim to check his pockets
for his shit, Leland
of East Jesus Inland Empire waited for
some literary salvation.
A few games with the boys;
company's promotional frisbee;
Drew's hacky sac.
All punctuated by cigarette breaks.
Adam had a 32oz in a pure brown bag.
Thomas had an orange sneak-a-toke too.
And you and them and I
won’t know what to experience
until we’ve lived fuckloads.
22.8.09
Recycling Song
Distant horcrux of the viscount. Pontiacs with their strange and noble names crumpled mashed and compacted into Pepsi cans. The brains of a king pass through the guts of a nobler man. Roasting some chestnuts wrapped in tinfoil, he subconsciously participates in the breakdown of the Bad Old Soul. You can do a song and dance about this without even realizing the subversion of your extraversion. How now, brown cow? How now, machine gun bailout? There's an artillery in our movements these days that I find exciting. But eventually we will become the same as the last thing.
4:35 AM
On a damp, sweaty day, I wake,
staring at the ceiling.
Save for the gentle roars of hollow noise erupting
from somewhere distant,
though that could turn out to just be in my head,
I can feel a pulse exude from the air
through me, and
into the floor.
This sound fills my legs,
and arms,
and fingers,
and bone marrow.
It is a deep, rumbling,
bubbling up from the most dire catastrophe;
and a simple melody sitting above
the quagmire
is the soft "thwack" of my cats' tails
as they trawl through the vast landfill
that pools around my body.
My nakedness hides nothing but my gross obesity,
and I house a mad thought of explosion,
before it disappears.
Just another
residue of a fermented dream.
staring at the ceiling.
Save for the gentle roars of hollow noise erupting
from somewhere distant,
though that could turn out to just be in my head,
I can feel a pulse exude from the air
through me, and
into the floor.
This sound fills my legs,
and arms,
and fingers,
and bone marrow.
It is a deep, rumbling,
bubbling up from the most dire catastrophe;
and a simple melody sitting above
the quagmire
is the soft "thwack" of my cats' tails
as they trawl through the vast landfill
that pools around my body.
My nakedness hides nothing but my gross obesity,
and I house a mad thought of explosion,
before it disappears.
Just another
residue of a fermented dream.
8.8.09
a contemplative youth
Shaking Hand - Women
In Limbo - Radiohead
The Face Of The Earth - The Dismemberment Plan
Gentle Moon - Sun Kil Moon
Almost Crimes - Broken Social Scene
Disconnect the Dots - Of Montreal
Like Dylan In The Movies - Belle & Sebastian
Primitive Painters - Felt
The Sound of Settling - Death Cab for Cutie
William, It Was Really Nothing - The Smiths
Sovereignty - Japandroids
In Limbo - Radiohead
The Face Of The Earth - The Dismemberment Plan
Gentle Moon - Sun Kil Moon
Almost Crimes - Broken Social Scene
Disconnect the Dots - Of Montreal
Like Dylan In The Movies - Belle & Sebastian
Primitive Painters - Felt
The Sound of Settling - Death Cab for Cutie
William, It Was Really Nothing - The Smiths
Sovereignty - Japandroids
to eloquence!
Get Me Away From Here, I'm Dying - Belle & Sebastian
Fatalist Palmistry - Why?
Death To Los Campesinos! - Los Campesinos!
Shoplifters Of The World Unite - The Smiths
Someone Great - LCD Soundsystem
You Should All Be Murdered - Another Sunny Day
Don't Let The Fire Fool! - Lily Konigsberg
Our Change Into Rain Is No Change At All (Talkin' 'Bout Us) - A Sunny Day In Glasgow
The Jitters - The Dismemberment Plan
Fatalist Palmistry - Why?
Death To Los Campesinos! - Los Campesinos!
Shoplifters Of The World Unite - The Smiths
Someone Great - LCD Soundsystem
You Should All Be Murdered - Another Sunny Day
Don't Let The Fire Fool! - Lily Konigsberg
Our Change Into Rain Is No Change At All (Talkin' 'Bout Us) - A Sunny Day In Glasgow
The Jitters - The Dismemberment Plan
4.8.09
nervous
DOWNLOAD IT HERE.
Artwork by Kipling & Raith Penney.
Mastering by Joe Plourde of tamur records.
Special thanks to Misha Harminov, Alex Kehr, Will Bennett, Nick Jenkins, Jess Schiff.
All songs written by Kipling.
23.7.09
17.7.09
A Phobia
My biggest fear as a child, for some reason, was that a mouse was going to crawl into my bed and bite me.
What a surprise, then, when my grandmother decided it was time to show me the secret of her eternal youth when I was at her house the weekend before July 4th.
She led me into her bedroom, past the peeling wallpaper and whirligigs,
and whipped back the wilting sheets
underneath were millions of squealing mice
weirdly I did not recoil.
"My enemies keep me fighting and young," she said proudly.
I guess my phobia is hereditary then.
What a surprise, then, when my grandmother decided it was time to show me the secret of her eternal youth when I was at her house the weekend before July 4th.
She led me into her bedroom, past the peeling wallpaper and whirligigs,
and whipped back the wilting sheets
underneath were millions of squealing mice
weirdly I did not recoil.
"My enemies keep me fighting and young," she said proudly.
I guess my phobia is hereditary then.
The Dealer
Mario Romero is a drug dealer
he sells ersatz nostalgia,
for fifty dollars a pop.
tell him yr pleasure:
midnightwalks.
rolling over in your sleep...
(fiery thoughts of incest)
he does not claim to ruin anybody's life,
and if anybody asks,
he isn't home.
he sells ersatz nostalgia,
for fifty dollars a pop.
tell him yr pleasure:
midnightwalks.
rolling over in your sleep...
(fiery thoughts of incest)
he does not claim to ruin anybody's life,
and if anybody asks,
he isn't home.
The Dealer
George Kerrey is an art dealer
he deals specifically in the human predicament.
his favorite piece is entitled "untitled"
the materials are a copy of the National Inquirer from June 25, 2009 and the artist's boogers
he also boasts to owning a bottle of baby oil squeezed from 25,000 live succulent babies
he's off to auction at Christie's in August
"I know a good deal when I see one," he says.
he deals specifically in the human predicament.
his favorite piece is entitled "untitled"
the materials are a copy of the National Inquirer from June 25, 2009 and the artist's boogers
he also boasts to owning a bottle of baby oil squeezed from 25,000 live succulent babies
he's off to auction at Christie's in August
"I know a good deal when I see one," he says.
11:16 PM
stink breath,
nose clogged.
it's hard to be
around him.
tail between legs,
dirty nails,
the bad
sort of kid.
tar stained,
yellow fingers -
imagine them
around your throat.
carnal pleasures,
his only love -
his hand
movies on TV.
greasy hair,
acidic smell.
an atmosphere of
sick lusting.
sickening sweet,
mocking smile -
inflicting himself
on the innocent.
but however disgusting -
as sick as you make us,
playing our weaknesses,
wounding us deeply,
at least you're
not
them.
nose clogged.
it's hard to be
around him.
tail between legs,
dirty nails,
the bad
sort of kid.
tar stained,
yellow fingers -
imagine them
around your throat.
carnal pleasures,
his only love -
his hand
movies on TV.
greasy hair,
acidic smell.
an atmosphere of
sick lusting.
sickening sweet,
mocking smile -
inflicting himself
on the innocent.
but however disgusting -
as sick as you make us,
playing our weaknesses,
wounding us deeply,
at least you're
not
them.
Mechanisms
I've spent these days sinking in my own bathwater
An untouchable daughter stretching to run aground.
A mind self-destructive in its self-defense,
I turn away in deference,
but it's too late I see you – you, you float like an angel.
An untouchable daughter stretching to run aground.
A mind self-destructive in its self-defense,
I turn away in deference,
but it's too late I see you – you, you float like an angel.
serif
this leather jacket is an anchor,
still sinking -
you've more soul than
the average girl.
you're too smart for your own good,
baby,
you can deal with it all
on your own.
i take forty five baths,
every evening, yet
it seems
i can never get clean.
metaphorically speaking,
this all just becomes
a release
of a current of words.
still sinking -
you've more soul than
the average girl.
you're too smart for your own good,
baby,
you can deal with it all
on your own.
i take forty five baths,
every evening, yet
it seems
i can never get clean.
metaphorically speaking,
this all just becomes
a release
of a current of words.
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