Small
tornados, to pinch a nerve, to scold a sanctum. We’re
bound
for traffic, drifting through Sunset, and pausing on
Fountain.
I love it in earrings, and flower dresses, cursing
high-heels.
Was that a Porsche, striking through alleys—to
cop
a zone? I venture myth, ever to capture—a moment
long
past; and such beauty, brooding love, and born wild.
Its
gentle prose, formed in Goth, a mystic missive. More
for
death, a forbidden luxury, riding elephants. Such to
tickle—a
small giraffe, spent on liquor; and such to laugh,
a
genuine smile. Was it lost, ever to forget, where reality
slept?
I ask—to witness diamonds, peering into a sunset.
The
moon’s a thief, to rob a soul, where poetry carries
darkness.
Maybe for luck, a love to chance dice, a grand on
black.
I venture myth, to hamper woes, kissed at Rite Aid.
We’re
bound for traffic, speeding down Melrose, pausing
at
Pink’s. I relish for one, to purchase a rose, to a cigar. We
laugh,
ever to part, clutching a heartbeat.
