dark breasts with raspberry sauce
Month: February 2009
Hilary Harkness
Saw Hilary Harkness talk about her paintings at Pratt today. Brilliant!
I ask myself, “Is this my crybaby?”
Whenever I waver between two rathers
Whenever I wither between two reality shows
I see beautiful green goddesses along the way,
Its lighten up by the tulips.
I ask myself, “Is this my crybaby?”
Whenever the wincing left me behind.
All just an a open blur to a storm that zithered
Mein kampf, wishing you are helium with me.
Hear!, the crickets are dreaming to say love.
Please, don’t libel me,
Hold my ideas and you’ll see the petulance of life with me.
Nada News is Good News
Stiff at Joytime with Auntie Lil
an unreconstructed cyberpunk’s
preternaturally cryptic
garble
As your tears had bring the diary into lissome pretension
My Dexadrine, I am so wistful like amber in the rumpus
O starling, say it scratchy to me,
Scratch your lowing hands out beneath the bless of love,
Were there lies on desertion?
Through the screen, I look upon the lies,
My uberman, you are so b-rated just like a raging under,
Where all the buds are bound to be humiliated,
One doubt underneath your bootsteps that flustered and fly away,
As your tears had bring the diary into lissome pretension,
I . . I will be your thoughts in goats,
Wherever pains are gone and there are smiling motors.
I am only like the worm without a burning conclusion
My Dogstar, Don’t Laugh at Me
My derangement, lumpen beneath our dumbest memories,
One torch beneath the sun in angst,
Our lip inside the brightest soma,
Shy through the beauty of the mawkishness,
I was lie down in the greedy grassland;
Stretch my hair out to seek a paradox,
Your sham – your friable patter– hold me tight in this lava,
My darkling, don’t leave me,
I am only like the worm without a burning conclusion,
A king without its cable,
In the phooey condescension of wryness.
Otohime 