Shouting voices,
heckling laughter
peeling and clinking like pieces of metal.
My mind is full of breezing thoughts
and scents of poppies
and petals
stuck to my hot steering wheel
fried calously by the sun,
discolored, dehydrated
as wine seeping through
my fiberous body.
I am a song,
echhoing,
soundlessly,
winding in knots that
choke me dry--
beating cadences into the air
that stack as skeletal structures
sending me into the air--
high like popping petals...
I want to drink your lips for eloqence and transform into a princess.
I need to drink
--instead--
the challace--
blood-red wine to ink away
baligerance,
my humming interest,
and lull me safe to sleep.
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