let's talk about the time it hurt. playing mandolins in a wine bar. i am the esoteric. but i want you. i don't even know who you are. come to me. please. please. i'm begging of you. come to me and hold my finger tops and sing a rhyme of confidence. into this empty soul of dispense. this shoebox matchbox cradle of failure. only loving son of cherish desire. of the trinkets of your tears. frozen on the canvas of the water sketch life you and i were supposed to live.
we have hallucinated the beauty of your soul. taken into the awkwardness of lust. i am a whore catcher whore picker, writing stories of sex on my skin. one by one. to belong. to believe. to lust. to escape the oppression of a tendril frailty. to ascertain the beauty of the physical mold. that's all you ask. and that's all you give. a whore in disguise, this pearl of mine. and from this discrepancy of the personalities of man. you look at me from a far. and kick me aside. and talk about the urgency of your deliberation and penetrative wonder kind. for here and now, then evaporate to the back door alleyway. in pretense of the unknown knowledge. of this multiple utility of sexual decor. it's all about the physicality of fracture. the physicality of the appeal and appearance. hey there handsome...you looking? blank. maybe? what for? to fuck. want to come? the ascent. alright. walk away. the display was enough. this momentary praise of the woolcotts. the cotton of your lubrication. so light. so feverishly light and warm and moist. strip your shame. your embarrassment. and say, i am the wall street-er. i am the accountant of the fund frolic finance tycoon. but who cares? your subversive banality. your dispensable trove of lies and annoyances, we have learned to accept.
warhol. your floating clouds. and silver spoon. and soup, babe. what were you thinking? could your imagination come floating lies. hold my hand. and whisper to the soap bubbles by the mandolins?
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