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magic, in dog yearsMagic, in Dog Yearsmagic, in dog years
Lets go off to the gypsy's store and buy a bottle of 1970 chicanery.
We're fermenting, old boy.
We, dusty old throw pillows from the last decade - still sleeping on tattered couches.
Yet the Gypsy sees how bright we are like grapes ripened by a long gone sun - glimmering in tandem with her sequined veil dangling before her eyes.
We know the truth, old dog.
We're ever so faithful riddles and drunk on our own beliefs our own answers and truths - waltzing through words, trying to give
by `radiophonic
KoroshiStray, dogged, undercover cop, hunting for the creep who stoleKoroshi
his gun, on the bus. Must've crossed like scissorblades. Their skins' oil,
the judder and the sun's fog - then gun gone, and he a fool.
He tears the bread - the giant moths of shadows play on him. The movie reel
of the whole street rattles. Light dogs the black, slippery seeds of his pupils.
by ~jack-cade
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