"Scrape/Scrape/Clatter"
Says the nickel to the dime to the penny for your thoughts on a mahogany press- with a chime-of fathers dirty desk in the mornings clean light. If you look away too soon, from the script, I mean, you'll miss the crescent moons imprinted on the steering wheel that our fingernails leave.
I woke up there, under ol'fathers desk, the one that contains the glass of bullets that sit, reminding us that Poppy tried real hard but ultimately quit. He poured his feathers on a wall and decided to dive because he saved his frequent flier miles and despised the sky.
So his pocket change and glance did the prettiest little dance with the screen quite-squeaky-faucet-leaky like the chatter around a newly signed peace treaty. If the wound was silence then my dad made a suture out of whispers spreading change just like Martin Luther.Not with a nail and a door but with pocket change for Gatorade while I slept on his office floor, his religious (pocket) change comes in the form of carbs flavoured lemon/lime.
Right quick, I got up..
Right quick, said the blur/
--- to think of the place I woke up the morning before.
(in my head)
Because that bed
(and it's biblical sheets)
Mean a lot to me already with a clever trace of urban irony.
Today it was here and tomorrow hopefully there, where it was yesterday, I'm trying to say. And in two days maybe my new place where I'm moving today, but maybe in a few, on the weekend I mean, I'll be basking again, where I hope to be tonight, I mean. Of course, the ubiquitous and the obligatory are never far apart, like a starter pistols smoke and the race for another's heart.
Hark! Bob barks because of the commute of the fleas, who are on their way to work in his wildest dreams. His paws carry nails that flail to no avail,skin is red and irritated contrasting the pale, and faded skin that lies within, all the fur on his belly tell him that these bastards mean buisiness. They jump real fast to poor Bob's dismay, as he rakes his black lawn rolling from sun to shade. They move like Fred Astair up the east side just to frolic while he squeals and does a dance on the west side. In past tense, he lost it, could've hit play but he paused it. He puts your trays back up, chairs in the upright position, he has no concept of the pocket change as I continue to listen.
These are noises from the floor, Chapter 4, Thoughts in my head about her, Chapter 6, about the world outside and how they gave the dialogue to Chapter 9.
So ripple:ripple+gleam says the sky to the trees,
Who returns the favor by extending branches (s)mothered with leaves, to do a dance{dance}dance quite choreographed, like a late night talk show that seems improvised upon a glance.
Like floss through teeth we dream,
We screen---
Our calls, our thoughts,
Like the movie of the meek
We plan---
We intend, what we show in the end,
Is a little boy who reaches for the sky,
Sending his best regards from his mother to the highest bidder,
Like the apple in his fathers tide.
And when we get/get/get/get/get to the squeaky screen with the oil to pave quiet thoughts for our memory to read...
From the page: page/page>>
Like it was all the rage!
We fall in spine and match our mothers pride, like we're the prettiest little black dress to mismatch the fall line.
Scrape/Scrape/Clatter
Ripple/Ripple/Clatter/Gleam
Says the metal money to the wooden trees to my head to the Bible sheets.
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