Somethin’ about her rhymes like mad. Like a snooker cue put upon fire. Here she still sits, heavily insistin’ upon snookerin’ all of my lassoed dreams.
And I still kiss her sweet Mississippi lips. While she simply proceeds to pass right by. Her dynamite mind. Of many made up realities. This has to have been when we tended to lean succinctly on in. Till pressed cordially against. Till altogether deplorin’ the other cursed person’s ecstatic anomaly.
Each of their own. This thirsty thirst for plagiarised forgiveness. Pen to poised paper and she still finds one such way to savour this particular New Orleans boy’s narrow-arrowed flavour. Touched to simply kiss the caressed underbelly of the crazily kaleidoscopic, inescapable intercity of the reimbursed sun.
All of it sits to swim so ultimately pretty. Don’tcha think? With a gun to my mind, I find all of the time. Ten times over the coldest of shoulders known to be. Juxtaposed one aside no other, we propose to suppose many times too many amidst many times more to soldier on seekin’ – the other cursed person’s lucidly suggestive dreams.
Is her tongue really this triangular impossibility, have to ask her?
One person played intricate and real. By yet another home-blown, ‘grown, anomaly. And she proceeds to feel her scar-tissue of her feet. Fetch ‘n’ stretch ‘n’ unfathomably search further afield. For somethin’ far more otherworldly for themselves. And with it the swipe of that manicured foot upon the stealth of the screechin’ pedal. It gets to burnin’ right up ‘n’ resoundin’ resolutely right by. The churnin’ tire tracks turned quickenin’ly toward. All of the white lies in this circular, cyclical world of hers not mine.
The tremendous twist of the other person’s usurped touch flagrantly quenched.
If just a mile-per-hour minute.
And that sweet Mary-Jane apostrophe variety makes sense of itself again. And here we appear to lend ourselves towards forever laying lazily, hazily, right by. The sands of time. ‘Til simply left at bein’. Its undeniable, upright reelin’ apostles set to forget to forever proceed. And with it with the skewed view of a lifetime.
Brought back to bombastic balancin’ act reality – riptorn ‘n’ real. Please forgive thee, because the crunch of the fall has taken its toll, taken a whole other distanced distraction of its own. Borrowin’ all of the pronged and forgetful nine yards till takin’ somethin’ back for itself.
Even so soon as when we weren’t even lookin’.
For our own fuckedup souls no more.
Two different rooms with five different matter of fact realms back. If we wished for the sweet insistent memory to kiss our adolescently pressed lips yet again