Lady Like, In Summer Clothes.
I was surrounded by cardboard cutouts. Dastardly beings! All speaking in different dialects of poverished ghetto Russian. Countless sparrows marched through the dusty air menacing whichever hope was left in their manic path. Sparking this witchism with misty eyes was this dancing girl spitting ice through the crevices in her dirty dress. She missed me by just a pinch!
See was nothing but lies and a mixed descent was the look of her cream white skin and lime green eyes. How they shone! They pierced my heart and my mind and my ghostly soul. With those eyes she peeled my shoes and crinkled my trousers. Clinging to her with every one step and every soundless movement as I paced myself to her rhythm.
"I have to get out of here! It's full of dirty old men!" Cried this mystic gyspy of a girl.
See was petite with a pomegranate in her left hand while the right made its tangent towards the moonlight that painted her skin so soft. And she glanced once--towards the bastard that popped his knuckles and gleamed trident squares out of such a black hole you couldn't imagine how his lungs could exhale. He sucked in everything--this included the color of my face, the green of the leather grass, the grime of the dirty streets of Austin. Hobos backed into playgrounds while the fuzz would muffle their alarms. This muting of the whining attracted the pigeons, to the displeasure of the vigilante who had his eyes set on that pearl. That pearl with her green mystic eyes and cream soft skin.
The vigilante dueled the black hole boy with his trident square teeth and his pocketfulls of cash. And all I did was follow her, slipping past the dust, grime, hobos, pigeons all gravitating in this mess of blood, hair and the initially mentioned black hole (bleeding, now it was).
I followed her until time was not a factor. Days blended like creme into the week of its soft tongue, quite like hers I would imagine. I could not brake from my obsession--to speak in those terms frightens--no!--offends me, yet I cannot press the earnest endearing love for my distant prize to you: the attendant, the audience!
And there she pranced, this greenhorn unknowingly twirling away in her petite, creased, mystic dress. Complete with emerald green mystic eyes and soft creme skin. In the blues of my own street, my own mystic longing.
See was nothing but lies and a mixed descent was the look of her cream white skin and lime green eyes. How they shone! They pierced my heart and my mind and my ghostly soul. With those eyes she peeled my shoes and crinkled my trousers. Clinging to her with every one step and every soundless movement as I paced myself to her rhythm.
"I have to get out of here! It's full of dirty old men!" Cried this mystic gyspy of a girl.
See was petite with a pomegranate in her left hand while the right made its tangent towards the moonlight that painted her skin so soft. And she glanced once--towards the bastard that popped his knuckles and gleamed trident squares out of such a black hole you couldn't imagine how his lungs could exhale. He sucked in everything--this included the color of my face, the green of the leather grass, the grime of the dirty streets of Austin. Hobos backed into playgrounds while the fuzz would muffle their alarms. This muting of the whining attracted the pigeons, to the displeasure of the vigilante who had his eyes set on that pearl. That pearl with her green mystic eyes and cream soft skin.
The vigilante dueled the black hole boy with his trident square teeth and his pocketfulls of cash. And all I did was follow her, slipping past the dust, grime, hobos, pigeons all gravitating in this mess of blood, hair and the initially mentioned black hole (bleeding, now it was).
I followed her until time was not a factor. Days blended like creme into the week of its soft tongue, quite like hers I would imagine. I could not brake from my obsession--to speak in those terms frightens--no!--offends me, yet I cannot press the earnest endearing love for my distant prize to you: the attendant, the audience!
And there she pranced, this greenhorn unknowingly twirling away in her petite, creased, mystic dress. Complete with emerald green mystic eyes and soft creme skin. In the blues of my own street, my own mystic longing.
posted by Henry at 10:36 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home