the fibres give in to your starry warmth
a lamp is called green and sees
carefully stepping into a season of fever
the wind has swept the rivers' magic
...
Read full text
Dang, I hate it when he runs out of drugs. He's not nearly as amusing when he takes himself seriously
fabulastic & swell. 'God and my toothbrush are Dada, and New Yorkers can be Dada too, if they are not already.' - Tristan Tzara
The title sounds like one musical soundtrack, clever pick! the poem is a bit intruge me as i wonder what is actually exhibited from this abstract heart, but it sounds like....calling self to sober after a red-blue tragedy.