great brick glass arches
|
my toungue and hips peeling
|
these swirls of tripped-out lightning
|
titilate and frighten
|
|
and i feel
|
to be
|
in a strange daze
|
|
wasted just like the old days
|
anxious to curl up and crawl away
|
but then distracted by another face
|
leads me to another place
|
|
and i feel
|
to be
|
in a strange daze
|
|
-----------------
|
the trip
|
| Autumn |
