You and me tonight just the wild finger free rash long-line mystery mind-shrine;
Speak in signs with remote, slapping hands in the Pirate Sea,
Grow dope and re-route the fisherman with his low-down moon-eyes.
In windowed rooms this side east there are shadows where they grow humans for food
And international slavery there are crevices and in those crevices clues
There is also the city weather.
All I can smell is the smoke of burning sweaters climbing robes olden screws;
Take bites out of erratic memorized eyes and pulses; grow spokes on your embellished streets; Kiss yr dog and you’ll find yr cure.
In 1987 the thrones were big for new-made sons suckling maritime ships on stage, History died in the TV and Columbus was saved;
There are backyard grills which mask half-hearted rage..
There is also the surveillance camera on yr grave.
Your obsession to cigarette and milky upper lips makes way for feathers behind all the beaks;
Lush yr tears away in cubed con privacies; lift yr cheek with a pinch and squeak;
Become real using your own face and kissing reverie:
You’re the add-on to escape the big crowds and beasts, another word for wine.
Sex the far distance for the easy body and bean; Smoke the space joke and viper.
The skin has three layers of tissue and elastic fiber, see?
In 1987, for some, the play money was free.
Chris Weige | California, TX. | Share a key intuit