Kiwi sliced neat and juicy
opaque green beading up like strange fresh blood...

I dream in paisley printed paint
with flowers in my hair...

Cold, cold and bright,
still, still the night...

The world presents itself, framed and unreal
stained like a canvas in sandstone and steel...

Between the pages of now
and forever...

Sometime I'll be
getting high, off...

Looked upon by angels
with polyester wings...

Oh, you are bright, my dear tormentor,
bright like a blade, and as cruel...

You are too close
for me to freely breathe...

Low tones through thin walls, the
bouncing Germanic rhythms of my mate...

Magic is nothing more
than, merely, a soul...

She leans,
probably too far...