as far as the triumvirate of sorrows
played out like a five fiddle orchestra
festooned
in derivatives
and malapropisms
befuddled
and bent toward
nirvana
with toothsome
loathing
and double beehive mirrors
we are not without feeling
begat the begotten
begin the beguine
brag for all yer worth
and board the next train
if there is one
the stolen rivers
wet the weak
soured by lemons
and mangroves
arid in their distillery
perfunctorily resplendent in snakeskin leather and violet eyeshadow, amicably
turning the grinding mill
thinking of the temperature
and when to wait and when to go
"I am not the archer of your dream"
oh you, Sagittarius freak
go put on your nightie and your running shoes
I'll be here waiting with my drawing pad and
a spring loaded Deputy Dog
Oh, ever watchful
I wait, I am the waiter
not the one who serves
not the one whose fingers are snapped to
not the one who gets the order wrong
not the one who brings the bill
I am the waiter
ya know, like George Bush.
Mission Accomplished.
Bereaved
bereaved is bereaved like a
hydratic equation
death/loss over pain/suffering by time + (distance)
R= nothingness
B= Being
Rythmn and Blues
Lucille knows
so does Caledonia
and Annie
Charlie doesn't get it
I am not supposed to know
but we all know he's dead
and that's what fucking hurts
