Friday, May 14, 2010

the painted picture

of this bird hang in the foyer of my near future home. The apples of a dozen centuries sit in the fruit bowl of my long gone past homes. The features of her face read like a perfect event horizon, we saw the sun disappear beneath the moonscape of our heavens and hells. Wait, did you hear the pin drop on the proverbial floor? Or was it myself imagining things? Probably both or one or the other. A shaman retreats into the bone thick edge of night, we read signs that may or may not be there. There was a dog howling at the moon, a saucer of intergalatic space cheese and you just have to realize I'm bored at work and mean nothing by this. The plate of bees were covered in chodolate and we could eat their stingers if we weren't too careful. Stung by a bee with some bee stung lips. Let's perse or is it purse them. There were diamonds made of stars and I was made forever in blue jeans. They were Capital E because that's all they wore, like Prince's yellow assless chaps. You were too nice, and that's what they said. That was the take away.

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