Tom Waits Is a rain dog, I am a sunshine boy left in the yard too long for the doorman not to notice. Franz Kafka is belligerent as he swims in his beer and Chris Ferrino writes his next song on his sweater. the new york moon is laughing in it's bony teeth, switchblade skies are opening for the virgin clouds to enter. the grease that makes it's name on the shores of our sore bodies grown in idaho I don't know slams the ceiling simply to create the 1st feeling.
repressed memories decorate the walls, the classy paintings of the jet set. our pain is the newspaper shards clamped to the porchtrolls sleeping underneath.
No comments:
Post a Comment