like fragmented thoughts

hushing onto the cement

swirls

of whirled

rainbow spills

in the puddles of parking lots.

Cigarette butts

and belated fucks

exploded into seas of light and excretions

Back cocks

and pickup stops

for no apparent reason.

There is somebody standing in my door

with a white toothed grin

winking, suspiciously

sardonically

and cracking whips of glory

against the blood splattered bathroom mirror.

"It's raining outside."

"I know."

"Come here."

"No."

"I want you. I love you. I need you."

The carpet writhes in likeness

and the sky turns a chalky black

when the rain drops

like fragmented thoughts

like crytals in the sunny window

like crytals in the sunny window

like dribbles of the sea

and sand

that spread out like wings

into the park and cause this wind

that puts out the flame.

Deep in this dark cave

the Sun spins like a super nova

the grass was wet and diamond

the sky was bright and blue

the faces flesh of blood and bone

of what we all call real and soul

and pens on paper, spurting semen

call to me in secret voices and tells me things

with angels wings

and I cry with other faces

because I have no wings

and they have no wings

and we have no wings

and I feel sympathy for DeVincci

and for Shakespear

and Satan

and I feel sorry for Jesus

and for The Beatles

and for the man who is always in the background.

But, I do not know them.

and I talk about them

like they're here in the room

but they're not

and somewhere they are angry

because they have no voice to me

and they have nothing but thought within me

and thought count for very little

and are like the rain that drops

in lets

and falls

and splatters and runs together

but, it's all just water to you and everyone else.

It's all just water to the pontificator

and the know-it-all

and the psychologist.

But, when the rain falls on you

you open your umbrella and you walk to your cars

tripping over swirling rainbows

and high heeled shoes.

Smiling and waving to windows and friends.

"Call me!"

"When? Around 8, okay?"

"Yea! Sure!"

And it falls into the

distance.

With the cactus

and the plateau

where I never stood but dreamt about in my most orange dreams

very orange dreams and sometimes red

and always very bright

and I awake to biege cielings with waterstains

like angels

and I awake to the smell of wetness and dead children

and I awake to the touch of a carcass long dead

but still twitching.