Having launched a battalion of beauteous beasts against Zen Phantoms
Having finally perched myself on spindle-prick needles of Svengali summers
Cast my lot in Everlots and Neverlots of complacent corpses
I have sailed my brown skies
I have swam my blue grass
I have soared my pink seas
I have run my green flames
I hear my sights and smell my sounds of acid flavours and dis-harmony
All the while crying at my mothers' lost echoes...
Daughter dont ever grow a 'wishbone'
where a 'backbone' ought to be
No comments:
Post a Comment