She came last night.
We drank her wine.
Amid the winding colors on the walls,
the breeding masochisms of our growing haze
She danced inside our auras
and I wept.
I dream a thousand dreams
living in castles where the haunting bricks scream
where we ride in limousines
to the grocery store
watching slow men bag the produce.
We sip a Muscat sweet and fruity,
smoking special cigarettes
rolled by our own hand.
We are elevated savant souls of
one day the masses will have a moment of clarity
even though our hearts know the truth.
We sit in a flower filled room
painting on canvases,
wandering the hallways of our communal home
slapping high fives and blessed bee's
as we pass each other in the trees.
All the while stands the Mistress
smiling her fortune on our drunken heads.
Then the music dies and we're left for dead
back in the reality of nine to fives
driving erratically through the bee hives
of honking horns and forlorn faces
paying the man who pays us to forge a plan
of how he can get richer.
And I'm feeling like a bitch, a cunt who wants to run
to some distant island where money don't matter
and there's not the constant empty chatter
of politics, dramatic episodes and reality shows.
I'm an anonymous writer beneath the palm tree
where the tides arrive to lick my feet.
I own a carrier pigeon named Agatha.
She lifts my bundled paper in her mouth
and flies it to the mainland
where the thirsty wait for a sip.
I'm awake now back in this world where lays
laundry to be washed, walls to be dusted,
windows to be cleaned, the smell of dirty socks
to be exorcised from teenage bedrooms,
and I sigh wistfully, wish to re-enter the portal
where the doorman has no mouth
and my soul has become immortal;
never to languish in the scorching sun
because the weather never rises over ninety one;
where euphoria rules the elements,
but I'm still here in this silence
in this place where I feel useless
a stagnant messenger for the teardrops
until my beating heart stops.
copyright @ DBV publishing
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