by blood reading,
try drums and buy into its fabulous generation.
gunslingers only give
the mans' down beloved wrong idea,
running till clicks.
fingerprints and debris are tools.
hardly wooden stanzas
, what at breath
for a think-skull
from which other pretty children keep nothing
; maybe a poem.
untouched is the black
to a nostalgic floor
"love is where a blue chainsaw shit"
documenting hours' accidental teardrops
& going off to binge on a
fuck-load of fog cigarettes in hopes that
one might be a hiding collage
seeing where page pieces got uncovered
with victorian apathy;
deleted before someone sleeps in glass chaos.
these times that comment on blue-minded waistlines thank warhol.
edit hard intention.
long were the pieces in that fraud month
of televised illusion.
riff the wild whole.
everything whole is a burden.
what this be is a heavy thing.
the thread moving these things splashes
pop-rendition. further juxtaposing importance.
have pride in kind sleep
where stars did tough the red hours
in an embrace of knuckles.
& now the blossoms buckle for
a poetry dream gone checkerboard.
where a vase is just hours of
babble-talk with no schemata
& sleep usually is a whisper.
tired as a vintage idea.
& not a teardrop falls when love nestles
tonight under a joy-blanket
where a blue chainsaw shit.