Why are you settling into rhythm dance?
Columns of smoke off in the distance.
This isn’t the county fair,
Tickets are not up for sale.
Can I wield you more?
Master of a well tuned sword.
Can I stand up tall
Can I hold this stance?
I carry this rhythm down each dusty road
With my candle, ever bright
I am the carrier, strongest arm
Leader with my hand over heart
Standing tall and holding stance
Boldly believing, and that is tall.
In the end of all of it I had a reason.
There were two dots crossed off a long list of imaginations
And the cowboy had everything left to lose should it fail.
But that wasn’t the event there that day, you see,
A long riflesman came staggering in as the town watched
Thinking to themselves about a memory they all-to-quickly refused to listen to.
I couldn’t help but think that I was an envelope,
A whisper sealed away awaiting some sort of lucky ticket holder.
My eyes remained calm as time’s length pushed on.
Crimson was the colour of noon’s high sun.
Picking pockets like a Bazaar thief in Catholic quarters;
The city clinched tighter.
There once was an island inside of my dreams,
Floating with unseen amounts of impossibilities.
I was homesick. I wasn’t allowed to be there anymore.
So for now they sang, in cool shade of a willow tree.
And a stable meant for their local butcher
Fed the gatherers, who all at once came.
Dust kicked up my hallow heart’s worms and sheered into the edge;
At once I was offered fine takings
And imagined I was an elder.
Star fucked the highway,
Americana is my name;
Revolution is a pocket
Carries forever remains.
You with your big chalk talk
Playing taxi in cris-crossed musings
Like an off duty ticket master;
An expired joke
With an obscene ending
That dates your sense of amusement
To about nineteen fifty but-fuck no-where.
And this skull tattoo’d late night stalker
Has a skid mark diagonal to your
Latest amusement,
Which lights up the night life
Red, white and blue.
Chocolate spills off the edges of her mouth as if caught in the middle of some kind of erotic foreplay, struggling with the sloppy moments of recollections that pass through ones mind when stuck in a flashback.
Kisses blow around here, with their golden moments smothered in little murmurs and subtle tones of that which is familiar, or at least should be to those passionately inclined.
Pinstripes chalk the walls with character, allowing the vertically inclined to search the walls out in a practical dance that leaves them solving world mysteries that have been long forgotten or strewn aside as if left to the unexplainable.
Signatures full of rabbits come to life, animating this dreamspace with cuteness and emotion, my own hairline rolls and stretches in a sick game of character defining backgammon. This leaves me rolling the dice, asking the elders what their secrets are.
Idea. An idea. One idea reverberates off the walls, bending and warping the pinstripes and smudging the chocolate into the back pages of my conscience. I allow it to linger here while I hash out the logistics.
Booking the next plane ticket the action unfolds, the plan begins it’s course and the erotic foreplay dances it’s way into the shower to clean up its rep. It is now that the flashbacks come stronger as the future becomes clearer.