Night is a mind field exploding hagiographies
And you motherfucker are all in. There is an issue I need you to help me with:
I either got the girl’s milked body in my mind
Or the silent way in which she dresses in the morning.
I don’t really pretend to sleep,
not so much. I can’t sleep when her back is bare and
her skin is yelling silver jawed butterflies
Right into my gut. They fly at the speed of light
in a vacuum of free space,
They don’t sting when they enter. Once the butterflies have carved
grottoes of bone and steam, I make love to her when she isn’t looking.
If you were around to make your 36th film
I’d say you’d like to film me watching her.
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