dull the sky amid smog sin cocktail
thoughts blunt against my skull
drink without soul
noir talk lady cries
her man is always right
yet never is he there
crescendo music hear her cries alone
on the sidewalk
on a night like this which is all the same
my glass runs under still they eyeball my keys
do gooders young and haven’t lived long enough
to feel to feel to feel
it wasn’t until he sat never losing the conversation of what happened in 1969 speaking through the waffle of the matrix in black glove confirming that he was a passenger of the Will
sometime during the birth of a new day before cackles and moans from all of the earthly species blurt to the urban sky, she dreamt of an apocalypse on Prozac diagnosed as fake news. maybe we should…was what she thinks she said.
upon arriving to the designated meeting place she saw her there, a slump of pain encased in ancient royal flesh filled with torment and cheap hooch. alas her man had died. she regrets thinking that he was fucking another whore, when in reality he bestowed upon her his last gasping grunts.
not sure how to process validation she proceeds with caution it’s the season of the silence once more…
blood rush through my veins
restless bound to wandering
i the seed of Cain
my vivid flag lays
only today at your feet
your lips on my neck
words less spoken 