knife party at the niko

i'm dry from all your slight of hand tricks, your matador ways build crust beneath my eyes---you still cut through me--- barely at all i move trying to see you, get a glimse and thinking always in the back of my mind, that if i can just pull through it, you'll be there, arching eyebrows and american thighs (pale, so pale) and drooping low i can find you, just beneath cloud armies where you rest, where you hide, keep hiding.

watch you from distances that often equal the strength of mountain ranges and keep you further still, one more step mirage angel with your falling away tired arms, it's so hard for you to hold

oh you turn over like a firecracker, it's easier to be there when it all goes down: you're the wicker chair of my life.

...cuts through me.



2004-02-07 | 1:06 p.m.
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