1900
Ashen heaven,
clenched,
comfortably fierce
in my crooked yellows,
kicked back
at the primo-crack of
a casually deemed dawn.
A thin cloud of smoke
surrounds me,
inspires me,
only events such as,
can bring forth
the realest of I’s.
Can’t help but laugh,
my friends,
at confusion
of my own crooked innards.
Crooked smile,
crooked stare,
thankfully
this Spirit brings
puffing nico-coals of
Straight-mindedness.
right for my cancer
I build between,
Yourself and I.
Nearing the re-printed Beast,
Closing in on a sour foam cylinder
of ‘safe’ separation.
Don’t give a though.
Why else buy matched sets of Twenty,
Keep Going
seems the plan.
The Hair,
the skin,
the lung,
What have they done?
Un-responsible, eh,
Nah.
Rolled on my own doing,
bring joyful peaks
very rare to You & I.
Only the most selfish,
You know i am,
end with that letter
Lucky #9
WANTED: Time,
Dead or Alive?
[number 9, number 9, number 9]
