Wednesday, July 20, 2011


i feel awash.
words on a page
sworn by ink in western pictograph.

make no promises

their own self resonance
and she won't answer.
it's not as if i turn her away.
alone for volumes and more.
the passing and passing of an evolution of imperfect wrecks.

we pace in a dream state,
halls, halls,
and then company.
dreams of sex with her in hell
aside broken wine glasses on sidewalks.
eyes passing by the windows.

we are false, for real.

wanna share an epoch?
or communion?
real spirit, but o' nothing promised or true.
the dead in your dreams are your questioned breaths,
a want to be good, alone and unique.
strong because you are art without premiere.