there’s something sane about a lady in black clothing, funeral attire mended with particular fashion, teeth like a cat on the sweetest nod, perfection that shines on her skin, drawn with permanent crayon—flowery tissue that turns purple with a careful push.
there’s something inane about a disease with long buzzing legs, while I Rock like a broken chair made of my shattered heart.
I’m a stranger inside unlit trailers, looking down the barrel of a 45 that misfires at the touch of a Redneck’s decree
as the moon crawls through the few stars of this cherubic city, she’s all I think about; I know a fairy tale when I dream one, and she’s the one who pets the serpent with grungy hands, kisses my lips with the tongue of naked serenity.
I hope we never fall in love again;
expectations of a lost puppy without any fur.