The city is an ink stain. I’m so tired of ink and stains and people shuffling around in lonely shoes…
My glass of wine is the color of Octopi’ blood. Did you know octopi like to play charades? And they’re quite good at it because they have eight arms.
There is a helicopter circling my house. I’d like to believe that the government
is watching me, but I know I’m not that interesting.
I don’t believe in Revolution. I believe in holding on to whatever good there is in this world. I’m cynical. I drink too much. I fancy myself a poet.
Life is made of lies and mesh…
I taught myself to juggle, because I was bored. But now I’m bored of juggling, and want to teach myself how to throw knives at pictures of you.
The is a tiger in the zoo who daydreams of the open plains of Africa. He may be daydreaming of killing a zebra also. I don’t know. We don’t talk anymore.
If your picture was on a stamp, would you send more postcards? Would you travel to China and mail yourself a letter? What would you say to yourself? I miss me?
Death is afraid of flesh…
This weekend I want to hear an old blind man sing the blues. I want to be that old blind man. I want to see the world all in black. And hear it wail and moan.
You water the lawn so the green will impress the neighbors you never talk to. Your car is cleaner than your house. You store all your dirty thoughts behind your eyes.
This bottle of wine is almost done, and so am I. Tell the tiger that it’s okay to miss home. I’m going to sleep. Winky and Blinky and all the sweet poems your mother used to tell you will lull me into a peaceful dreamscape. My jagged heart is too brittle for this satin. Goodnight, lovely world. Your goosestepping waltz has tired me out!
I’m a night-sailing gypsy of Marrakech…