Motto: "There's a little girl's voice that sings lullabies in my guest room closet but don't mind her; she died years ago. Here's your blanket"
the night squeezes moon juice into my dreams
and I lemon my way through thick syrupy words
going round and round above, in my head
like a dotto train
ding ding ding!!
(Luna-land here, everyone off!!)
fantasies of the weak
begging like potato chips in a bag to be crunched
at least once
in a commercial with a second hand banner and no pride
trouble was waiting in paradise
like paint in a pot
ready to be splashed over an Aston Martin’s window
how we laughed at this scenario, oh!
how many times
we giggled thinking God is away on leave
and He is, He must be
and He must have left in charge
Brahms’ lullaby, her frail mind
and someone’s little finger