rancid recall taints the scented asphalt a girly pink. like ladies frilly things. like a fresh lilly pond full of bulbous blue frogs croaking their spleen to the roaming moon.
a lovers letter sits waiting for the ink to dry but the paint still runs on the window sill. run paint run for your true love calls. calls the tune.
such a sly note. a slippery throat. a desperate coat.
a herd of horns fills the horizon with the sound of braying. call back the lone figure. the taunting echo of a woman whose dress rides thigh high over her cuban heeled boots.
they just don't make them like they used to.
too.
two.
da do do do.
do they?
glass house's pour their scorn onto the newley shorned heads of the grateful living and the blessed dead.
like slow honey it creeps over the mantle and drips onto the floor in a corruscating mass of illumination but the cupboards are dim.
the cupboards are drear and the secrets they hold in creased and folded packets from k-mart and wall-mart and the tarts of tesco grow pale and languid in the fungus grim dark. like the tales. the tales of two.
and one.
and none.
.for comments, go here...cocaine jesus
