I really think, next time I move somewhere I need to limit the crevices. I don’t know. I can’t control myself, I can’t get you out of my mind, I can’t give you anything, I can’t make it on time, I don’t care, I don’t like anybody that don’t like me, I don’t wanna get involved with you, I don’t wanna go down to the basement, I don’t wanna walk around with you, I don’t want you, I just wanna have something to do, I know better now, I lost my mind, I love you, I’m affected, I’m against it, I remember you, now I wanna be a good boy, I wanna be sedated, I wanna be well, I wanna be your boyfriend, I wanna live, now I wanna sniff some glue, I want you around, I wanted everything, I won’t let it happen. I would have called it beautiful. But I have a tanic headache and can’t stop thinking about the yellow ink and crocuses. And the scarlet-budded black-scabbed green branches are branches of city planning, explained in city meetings. Office supplies and urban horticulture, cosmetics, candy, mass transit and ant, cartoons and Norse mythology and Marco Polo and dry ice and the proliferation of new-money dachas in Russia: these should provide the terms of new poetic understanding.
No comments:
Post a Comment