Blog Archive

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Jazz or Junk, Enjoy.

Fans blowing hot heat do nothing but circulate stale sweat-humidity soaked air.

Pushing my soul into the street I dance with passing cars.

Look far enough into the eye of the beholder and you can catch a gimps of his mother disapproving.

Inhale, kill yourself. Exhale, kill the planet.

Water filled the room. I float to the top. Still.

Nail polish glues the girl to the skin on his back. Its okay, his wife wears the same polish.

Clouds engulf the mouth and starts tickle the taste buds.

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