We're going down and I'm a bastard too.
On this flaming dragon all is red,
It's bleeding away pieces of itself and I'm dead
Or soon there on the threshold of dawn.
Green fields, soft, impenetrable, sublime perfection
And tragedy struck on me above.
It's an interesting tumble towards the sea, leaping
At me from its vantage below.
We've got to do something about cup holders on
This end-bound flight - But
Forget the fucking cup holders and all superfluity too
Bucking and bleeding is all
I can do as I scribble out a last page in a book
It's not my book, but some other
Author's. Talk of witches and more shit that
sounds an awful lot like cup holders
To me, but some people never get over the little
Imperfections. To some that's everything.
I've got bigger fish to fry, but that's because I'm about
To be drinking salt and water on the rocks, or
Maybe a gin and tonic would go better with my
Cup ho- the world turns over
And so do I with blood dribbling up through water, mixing
With jet fuel. I need to finish this story up
Or else no one is going to read it. Ink bleeds out
Like it's a man shot and mugged,
That look of disdain on the page face like this wasn't
Part of the plan. Of course not,
No one plans to drown, buckled in, writing on
A whining page and wondering
Where the fuck the cup holders are on this flight.
No comments:
Post a Comment