She is up there with me. Being over fed. Thinking herself into havoc…chaos, laced with bedhead.
What is she thinking? Nothing, absolutely, nothing, in here fits right!
I love you? I love you? Pardoning the misdemeanor and miscues.
Somewhere between Elvis and Stonewall. Stuck behind Mr. Milk and crying Indians. An eighties voice of reason rambled roses and ranted…begin again! Mercy, mercy, me. She conveyed in disjointed speech.
‘I have been listening to thoughts with poetic endings…since your soapbox could preach.’
Remember ’81 when they told you to ‘…take your style and all the while. Take the hand Me downs out of the closet…and place them out on the street.’
Call her a psychedelic mage. Or, a flashback sage. I always stop and pay heed to the raving tales. Tainted and obscured the imagination…never runs stale.
Psychotic, obsessive plus neurotic. Days plus years after birth. My rendition of her a bit strange. Currently, my house of freak…does not feel the same.
With the stifled side of my street clean since the Clap On, Clap Off rage. I now know I needed my Forrest Gump stage. So tonight when Google books of faces play. The quietness of the throne will call my name. All be it meditations on what it is to be sane.