i saw what i thought was a 60 year old woman and her young dashing son.
it wasn't until her hands were between his legs and her tongue was on his neck that my vision gave out and i began to question the structure and integrity of humanity.
[spots in my dying eyes and me trying not to give in to hysterics. these strange moments. i live for them.]
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.and i have the blogs to prove it.
[not so good with the eye contact]
.i am a strange person.
.and i have the blogs to prove it.
.i blame the razors.
.older.
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too easy to fool. and too easy to lead. most times its easy to take the advantage and run with it. but in the end it makes the fun part seem lacking and less filling.
where is the good part of being on the floor beneath.
being the one with a thousand pennies and no paper.
the one with all the will and no power over it.
hm. some powers are rather lacking it seems.
taking over the weak leaves us with that fake floaty head and way to much time to gloat all alone to the walls.
where is the good part of being on the floor beneath.
being the one with a thousand pennies and no paper.
the one with all the will and no power over it.
hm. some powers are rather lacking it seems.
taking over the weak leaves us with that fake floaty head and way to much time to gloat all alone to the walls.
2 comments:
This is a great poem.
Didn't Colin Malloy sing something about the older women, "dalliant and dainty," and all the boys they drag about?
hah!
dainty my ass.
here in texas we make them spotted and cruel to the eye, with orange skin and an affinity for shimmering makeup.
yeesh.
my poor mind.
and those poor kids standing all of two feet away.
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