Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Desperidicio de papel

Counted the clocks
Burned all my sheets
With nothing to sleep under
No clothes and no creams
I’ll be cold as the blood dark sky
The atmosphere's poured
Into my bedroom
Barbeque grill
And a car engine boom
Not new, but fresh
Not new, but young
Familiar sound,
But quite foreign tongue
Who is the ghost that creeps under my skin?
What am I, pray tell?
And why
To be
My friend?
Playing in hurricanes
Running through sandstorms
To reach my own demise
Because the rest, they’re having their good times
But these are the sidelines,
Smelly backcountry
Where the clocks never cease ticking
And the sheets are torn up
Medicine’s in and it’s kicking
And I’m smothered by clothes
It’s so hot, like the sun’s burning down
Then it gets dark?
Hey, where’s the sun?


Drop-kickTheSun said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Drop-kickTheSun said...

I surely don't know.

Maybe I finally got around to drop-kicking its autocratic ass..

And if that's the case, well, you and a many others were a big help. So thank you in advance.