Sunday, 8 January 2012


Little boys who thought they were airplanes,
who grew up and had great big brain tumors,
passing out while silver screen orgasms sang them to sleep,
with the sweeter secrets of the universe,
all of these memories are dreamt then forgotten
by the sons of wine merchants and black cab drivers.
all of these thoughts grow like green grass,
then are bled dry by cold maturity.

I dreamt of you behind your back,
I'm sorry for that hated fact,
but you burn brighter then astronauts,
brighter than the sunlit arctic's white,
I thought of us in airplanes,
I fought the sadness of the night.

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