|2002-12-10 - 9:19 p.m.
ok this is long. remember, nobody is forcing you to read this. i write for me. but if you do jump on my train, you may just enjoy where you get off.
italia transcribed (written in italy) part one
italy once again, abstract bookends. fly boys too low to love too high to see. somehow tentacles manage to reach the soft cheeks of semi-experience. if it was only for the sweet wine that dripped and drove to staining puddles of oblivion, i could get lost in you twice. my thursday knight wasn't slaying dragons until i draped him in the cloak of a sure victory. could you scream hard enough for me. what's it worth, boy. you should never have pressed your madness against mine. but how you string the junkie along and how she craves. and when you are pressed against her does she slip away aided by the sweat of your hard work. if only you knew what you wanted in the first place, she might just taste like heaven.
how many visionaries need to see you fading away to void and disillusion. this chord in disarray plans a melodic ambush while you wade in parasitic plains of lesser creatures and wounded women. when flying lessons seemed extravagant at the time and the mechanics worked against currents and histories and her stories of the future. where did power bear flight in the first place. i can't do what you wanted. the tension to keep you away from the billowy white cloth that hung over my breast above the breaks of the balmy villa shore. and we sat in the garden. you spoke of infiltration and i wove your words to make sense of an unfinanced mission. you said it was all about the music and i knew more than what you offered. tractors pull my boy through unwanted factors that spoil in blasts of sun and he is dirty with innocence. where do i fit love in the mix of ghetto blasting while boom eruptions of compassion drown my weepy core.