merely, simply, only ...we were blowing bubbles: transparent spheres of liquid, locked in a less-than-passionate embrace,held together - holding shape - by the laws of physics alone.containing fragile fragments of forgetful fancies ...we were just blowing bubbles.
hypnotizing crumbsoften i'd save the life in me for the time spent between your sheets;where you'd have sex like a video game doesand I'd count sheep backwards.butlately ... I have no feet.
sexyA line of cars pulls up in front and the red carpets roll out like long tongues,out of the mouth of lovely, lovely lucifer himselfin lace - as not to disgrace the company.High expectations and chemical disassociation put the stars in our eyes tonight.Once inside the DJ spins and casts his spells,Stairwells swell and we leave bruises wherever we walk as we kiss and blow our farewells,making late reservations at hotels because we weren't able to foretelland because the invitations left out parts and were strategically misspelled as not to tell too much -foreshadowing is too risky a token in tragic tales, even though we wrote them ourselves.Through the violet lights so dim and through the fog of whispers, everyone is pretty.Cue cards hidden under skin make all our comments witty -so premeditated we were as zombies.The humble glitter stuck on the walls reflects our gowns for what they really are:tricks of the lightto entice and excite; deceive and delight.But that's the tric
diastoleyou're speaking in vibrations like heartbeatsim so glad you beat.a pulse is a rare attribute these days.
rolercoasters have no feelingsthey are skinny trees wearing rags that walk the streets as ghosts,with hearts and feet that beatlike the stone and trees drum as they tumbled down from their rugged posture.they are rendered broken monuments,giggling and gadding on playgrounds of rubblein a concrete death trap, in contrast to our concrete jungle.and even though they are unawareyou can see the stories run in a mumbling undercurrent in their incognizant stare,of the pain that the quakes brought here from over there.thank god for sweet oblivionbehind the eyes of the children.although smiling, their haunting faces hide nothing of their haunting existence.it was hard to tell them that their mother's trip would not end,that they would never hear her, smell her, see her again,that dad had lied when he said he'd only be a second while tending to the seismic tide,that he went for a longer jaunt than he had intended.they were all pushed onto a ride too intense for their sizeNorth Americans should be the ones to