Those two old hens, walk forwards and back, cackle and cryptic
moaning and groaning of the air out there.
Two hand sanded blast beats eradicate from gypsy monday mornings.
Calloused hands and chipped toenails scrape this cold tile floor.
Prying away at the finished edges.
Tanks full of petrified petrol.
Cavernous windows opening up to last centuries wishes.
Yesterdays demise invites you over for dinner.
Wraps it up in a toilet bowl drown fest.
Awaken. Immediately. it is ok.
Warm that pie for your breakfast.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment