Wednesday, September 3, 2008
the fruit that grows into a washing machine haircut
in the dreams i am naked. the sky is a drug. zeppelins rupture the air, whining like puppies. the blues man is holding his guitar like it is a marriage. he is really belting it out, and the ripples of music seem on the verge of melting all the buildings for blocks around. he is inventing rock and roll with fingers like an eggbeater, his eyes are closed doing the eternal equation that translates music into sex, where x=the rhythm of the bassline and y=the distance between two bodies. we are laying on a mattress on the roof of a building in the middle of the city. i am rubbing your back and the looks you keep giving me, mixed with the sounds you are making are turning my blood into liquid fire. the desire is thick. just as our lips touch, the sun shines in my bedroom window, right on my face. when i wake up, the fan is spinning on the ceiling, and it is stifling hot in the room, and i am so mad at existence that it was all a dream that i feel like punching it.