all up in
In small places to hide in when the sirens come.
Suburbia with sidewalks that aren't
for a small room
(instead of two)
in a house that isn't high on a hill
Muses Eat Your Memories:
They pin me down long enough to pull words out of me
drinking in the past with a musty smell like angel wings
You can't write without
breaking in your fingers.
nothing hurts or bleeds
when you're on a roll.
A stattaco blend behind the fuel of the words the past provides
fuel that keeps them well fed
up with excuses waking me up at one in the morning and needing me to write
about past and present narrations: lust and loss and everything else that comes out
as thieves between the layers of psyche and the motives that inspire
me into knots