A sigh, a sieve, blowing on the wrong day,
a heave to know these good throngs.
Measure my thing, we're travelling
to a sheen perplexed, exposed in
photos of rifles, off on the lurch of
a pleasing fall, of falling buildings.
My palms are sweet at the rally,
cold for the sieve-blown
plebes to rot. The holy glow of
granules sifting in the pot tempts
me to bash my knuckles
against your wood, hallelujah!
Find out somewhere that you
and I expand and trot, the
bugs tick like bombs the world
over. My heart says it wants
to kill us, but only for a number.
Borrow my good thongs, you friend, on
this wrong day forever.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment