When the power players converge and the plan is to save and there’s a spoiler on the loose and people wanna go see a star war, but you just want to sprout your cases and turn off one light and embrace the other. When your letters of love are on the table and ready. When love is all there is.
When fire-breathing, count your money, count your blessings;
For overtime and pyrrhic losses after a visit to a sad place, cut with piping hot fries and the receipt of a stringed gift. For a visit to E.R. (but only the first four seasons), the morning after a late-night catharsis. For when you really need to rewatch Buffy.
When Venusians reign and we admit our flying unidentifieds; when you miss her more all the time. . . then you’re pulled into a kiss of equal cups and you turn the volume higher.
For when you’re vestal and a smash with a fresh spray of roses and yer primline neat with what you need to do. *And how!*, in B&W.
… and where is that harmony? Sweet harmony is when the roaring continues uninterrupted over the gaps of shifting channels. linear time is a joke. when you order an iced honeybear at the halfwit wormhole and plan on the three levels of love-worn pages in the neighborhood-nearby future
When tears of a drowning pool and your other half wakes you up early to tell you ‘we’re going to war,’ after his own end-of-world dreams. Time for the after-party–invites out, sneakers in the mail, and a new set of clubs. . .
Quand Gemeaux, morning sunshine! The Lovers spiff up from the conjoin portal, in emerald gold and bloom from the wild pasture down the moonlight mile. A fever, if you let it.
When there’s stained glass for piety, and nemeses emerge; in the wild pasture, down a two-lane sidewinder—a matter of safety, or a rendezvous?
n i’ll dogwalk u hoes. tfw u got yr bag w/ a tape
of a touch of mink and ur mental mines’ Mitchumy––dread-looming knuckles and a true-footed saxophone––drop your shades, O &
that bottle hit different when i bust it across your head . . .
bardic bullion 