this makes no sense. nothing I write makes sense.

reminisce of tear filled shadows
discarded in broken street lights and passing cars
unwanted passengers on a two lane disaster
where's your master, who left his trash as my treasure?
"It's a pleasure," says an angel at my side, "for love is bountiful between my legs."

carbonated thoughts burn through throats
and maggots line the inside of my coat, censoring your canvas of moral decay
with skin smelling like lilies in may, open sores should not be displayed
we'll blow kisses to wounds from tomorrow's infection
to show our affection for rust clad whores.

so once more, a heavenly creature festers at the seams
she's a dark roaring ocean that'll tell of our dreams
with tacos, tantrums, and cyanide pills
fourth meal is calling, come get your fill.

I know I will.

a love that is fashioned from raisin bran and melting stars
it is ours to forget in a busy world of busy bees
us larvae lost in a southwest sea of tortilla reveries
no metamorphosis of memories, you see.

sevens to eighths, with firsts in between
all time spent was perfect to me.