Aerena

Are you a god or a smoker? Neither speaks in words In spilt lamp, we're hideous Near pumps, nothing else together You don't bother if I give incorrect change and change incorrectly For god's sake don't put down your cigarette on my account I have no intention Going inside to resupply Dollar bills your tobacco wears Worth-worn by the wind Wrapped in red Seran, I served as an obstacle you mopped Though I had to pay extra Ruining the inventory You're not a god or a smoker Hiding behind ashen eye Let's not take the whole night talking We speak in sores and scrapes. Going through that door ends the gasoline fires, ends Th

Blueberries taste as pristine cloud-sheep. Salted eggs a dry desert, furling tongue of the iguana If I agreed that milk tastes green, It might be easier to tell you "Cemetery air tastes like a splash of Picasso blue On crumbling concrete ceiling." And ask— "How's the dirt?"

McRib® is always "back," Like the homeless man I invited in one day To eat my moldy bread and ice cubes, Who never left, Or the evergreen trees, ever green. Then again, perhaps it's seasonal, And I never notice when it leafs.

Ivory waves billowing in impunity: Protectorate chrysalis projecting despair Encasing stock crashes, prisms, vendettas, and Imbibing quartets constantly remain to declare. Red letter morning, red letter evening, Day becomes long and unimportant. Spires twist and crack red letter skulls Until all of their ministers fail to recant. Egg shell breaks in solid lines and Three slices burst forth into delicatessen Chunks of ore and brine to roll into directions Opposing vanity, age, consistent lesson. One slides away eternally, clashing Against surfaces, thinking of finding itself In layers of wrinkled copper far, far away, Lining a