She’s scared of clowns and spiders.
Her hips love denim and her feet canvas.
Her eyes are sort of blue and they lure you.
She smiles with her teeth and it makes you breath heavy.
Her red hair calls the wind.
Thoughts you can’t rescind.
#TheWideEyeVagabond.
After the death of God,
A superhuman.
After the shadow of war,
A bacteria.
After the pain of gore,
A dreamer.
After bad dragons wash ashore,
A golden sun rises sooner.
After darkness and fog,
A monster comes for more.
7.5 miligrams HCL, Buspar.
Her mind windy, Ears ajar.
Yell hell. A cold spell.
Down her throat, a bitter pill swallows.
Behind her heart, a lost will she feels.
She fell ill but she is living still.
They came to charge a fee and to fix us with fancy words like Herbal Tea and Hibiscus.
The fame came with it you see. A Prima Donna and a plastic missus.
The rain brought them on wheels for free. Cold fantasies on the window pane. They frowned through glass. They missed us.
A daughter became a lover. A stranger became a father. A marriage in Damascus.
One virgin with eleven men. An old vermin, the only witness to tell them then. Promiscuous.
At dinner, across from me, Arturo and Manolo.
Well dressed and well fed. They look well kept.
Right in front me, a Gatorade, green beans with three bullets in a Kalashnikov.
A bullet for each but I dont die today. I got all my dreams in a cove.
See, a gypsy with narrow roots tried to feed me love and arrow roots.
I sent her packing but to her pictures I’m still wanking.
Yea!I know,
Thanks for asking.
As for the Spanish Skirmish, Arturo and Manolo have vanished.
Chasing liquid courage running out of throttle,
I met Mr. Scornful at the bottom of the bottle.
He had malice and laughter in a knapsack.
In her tiny cold frail hands, cancer. Evelyn Pendergrass.
How she ended up with him beats me, maybe dementia.
The squirrel on the forest floor next to them made the four of us.
She was excited. She couldn’t stop chewing.
The journey was rough, not made for us. The future grew timid.
Along the tiny narrow path, 35 years later,
I found out my emotions and bad habits were sleeping together.
Even Mr. Gingerbread man and his crumbles running by, didn’t bother.
So I sent darkness home while dawn peeled off the horizon off of the Sun’s eyes. Good morning.
The little red riding hood was safe now and the witch in the sugar cottage said wow.
Aunt Tracy’s dreams are too big,
i can’t step on them.
Real ants after sugar die with unfulfilled ambitions,
Shame on them.
So, i took my heroics and critics back to the village.
A wannabe renegade.
Last night. A vision, i told mama the kids and i are alright.
She asked me about my lover Matilda, oh great!
I told her she wasn’t real, her shadow is metallic.
Things about her are nice but cryptic.
I told her to pour me gold and feed me diamonds,
But she served me rice and some wet dreams.
Talk of good demons. Ha!
I dreamt and she obliged me.
I slept then she tucked me in, and then she killed me.
Went to bed last night and found a Violet dream in my sleep.
To that, akin..
A black Rose in my garden when I woke. Thank you Lord.
What is that in her glass?
Half empty,
Perhaps its half full, and it looks like love.
Soulful, yet cuts like blades of grass.
What is that in her heart?
Envy, green jealousy,
Perhaps, the color of things falling apart.
So loud, So rich, nice men must stay apart.
What are these in my hands?
Empathy, or false baffoonery.
Black Sympathy perhaps.
WideEyeVagaBond 