This clouded heart where the rain begins and the traffic dies. we cry a little because of the bricks showering from the broken buildings, the windows divided into pieces of pictures, the incomplete dirt and sallow gardens. there is a girl, she doesn’t know what her breasts are for and hold them up curiously with her fingers. her eyes are two wagons gone off down different sidewalks pulled by boys with playing cards in their pants, who can’t read their hands, who’s goodbye mouths sail higher and higher. the souls of their shoes are virgins. this is a neighborhood of padded mud, wheels gone all the way, kisses like the electric wires inside eels, nervous knives, pretty pistols, mothers, gods, fathers, cops, leaning with shame.
Posted on: Sat, 16 Aug 2014 04:54:27 +0000
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