|2002-12-12 - 3:40 p.m.
italia transcribed part three
birdsaw flight rides me to pompeii. after enabling passion and political jungle parties, adventure soothes an achy state of emotional blue balls. logical progression of silhouetted landscapes she is outstretched and i ride along her curves, laden with yellow poppies that send me to distant dawns. and i am fueled and silver electric and thirst doesn't win this small battle.
overtaken by sistine chapel i had no idea. and the yellow robes to adorn the chosen tribe in secrect pockets of christianity. delfica wears the face of purity and rosey cherubs become naughty diabolini. i thought maybe he and i could be entwined in the meditation of the saints. dio is pointing. i'm afraid i know not how to receive. i will hold my hand limp and refrain from breathing. i will slowly dive into the fabric, measuring the space between heel and marble, reading by torchlight. i will slaughter the giants with sword and might. i will raise my chin high and reckognize my position. i will accept pain as a consequence, not as a title. and i will pray die and be reborn.
io sono cupida. probabilmente e meglio cosi. i enter the gates and my wingspan of a thousand embraces transforms the flames that explode from back blades. if you held you hand at the base of my head i could fall into the depths as i ascended. and eyes that inhale the ecstasy would pour rivers of deconstructed sadness into silk robes of understanding. i burn in a sea of timeless motion while molecular gypsies connect my soul to earth. and in that cell, i believe. if it were only for the dreamcloth in gold and no sage was stretched with masculinity, i might actually become a heroine. the dream was short enough to keep the interest of the one pointing and long enough to write it in the sky. scribes and magicians with instruments of cosmos and i must receive.