I'm tapping on my heel--foaming at my mouth--friends appeal--in a sexual aura--that screams so loud-- but she's like the dove thats dipped in ink and I'm the crow when you clipped its wings before it chirped "may day, may day" fire away and cuban missiled straight into shit; and its so damp--dark and drowsy, when you're stuck in this dry spell you're stuck in the drought dry junkies and dry addicts and she lives on the top floor but I live in the attic.

when
I'm wrapped in the wings
of some bug
that i've crushed
in the leaves of the grass
someone described once,
some famous no one
meaning much once to someone--
but Walt Whitman
means nothing to me now

She told me I wanted to take three,
So I did

And I thought of a bookstore down in Lambertville or some strange early named town like that where everyone was gay, and took quite a liking to me-- browsing for type writers, to write written reports on my philosophies of human existence in its absolutely most beautiful form-- silence-- not morbid motionless death, not china doll trances and sick cold skin, just jaundice sort of sleep like dreams where fluttering eye lashes make me feel as if maybe someone's dreaming of me.

I can't quite be what you want me to be, and I can't quite ever be what you think I'll be. But I think I could pretty much fly if you could cast a spell on me. And I'll work three jobs, if you'd just sleep all day, and atleast save a piece of the day for me, and we could split the bed evenly in thirds, one for me, and two for you, sprawled out and writing notes and thoughts that are too dark to revise, too dark for me to read over your shoulder, its just the thought of time, and days of differences, and childhoods and never wanting to be my parents. I could make you happy, but I don't think I could sit here any longer to think of things to say that would make me feel any better, I can't decode you, and I wish I could. So I fall asleep to Beethoven and fucking wake up the Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, and laugh to myself, because for years I didn't understand it.

Fluttering muttering blackbird,
glistened unchristened castaway dove;
cross us, we'll be swans,
not pigeons.