lucid talk and dreamly manufactured oeuvres. It was 6am at the bus stop, stooping to notice the oracles in sidewalk cracks, fawning over discrepancies- pryed apart lips; Salt in the concrete. Salt in the gutter, in your eyes, wedged between vanity and altruism. &I thought to myself...
You are no less than these bloodshot pools streaming life through it's tenative silences, shallow crevices, altercations; No more than the advancing roar in the street. Chants at the pew. plea bargains in the morning,
Pour some vodka that whirlwind, that hurricane gospel, that grotesque nudity lying between nostalgia and blasphemy. |
