|April 1998 / Volume One /Issue Two|
they love their world. touch and feel alive,
inside, outside, and within their calling.
their headlights flashing, so wasted.
cold hands pressed to colder plastic, this
midnight, so like any other midnight, see
all broken faces, helpless or not so
lifted from slime and rock to live under
sun and fun and who could ask for more?
their world, my world, is a cold world,
in a tight bikini. watch it bounce.
watch the wings, they blur the vision of
all who survey. they are in heaven. they
are angels in heaven and god bless them
smell the girls, their hair like banners
for a better time. see me crawling, smoked
out. leave me here.
|Back to April 1998|