good days, the sleep will feel less startled when that foreign body is asleep and feeling a lack of color like a burned out sunset. our arms are stretched out with hands formed as drinking cups to the impending rain, this moment here on the couch with blissful music strained through my ears like fuel.
Poetry comes in musical sections of late night, what dumb list of activities to attach oneself to with the reconciliatory actions of a cat who knows a working section home with the desire to be left alone when the linger is longer and the days away are felt as playful moments fetched out from a jungle hike with flaming torch. The dark green vines all tangled up and the orange yellow flame bursting through with a black and white contrast as well, the limes accented above the submarine depth dark of the spaces between trees, where remaining leopards dream of hiding when confined to jail cells of observation chambers, where scientists or tourists or caged animals from around the bend act as helpless and captive as the fair ticket captive audience bored father dreams of a jungle. The jungle is one of those epic blues ballads that erases your happiness...
"every now and then I've been down... this cup of gin picks me right back up."
Does the beauty beat any deeper in a chest so capable of colors.
2am
