brown paper crinkle

painful shame of blue fluorescences biting cold across the bridges of our noses. the cash register vomits and we strangle your neck just to hear the brown paper crinkle. exhale outside in the parking lot, never seemed so quiet and unseeing, inside of a blind eyelid. we want a little bit to be seen in that same perverse way of lovers and criminals. we're not the bad kids, but we watch them rumble bruise by, seeing only their profiles and left guessing.

the dirt so hard and so perfectly gritty i compress it between my teeth in huge gulps. we hear the sad cough of a river lost in the city. we start to sob because we too are lost in the city and we realize how mournful the bowels of the metropolis are-- how bleak. then our throats begin to burn and our bellies ignite.

the glow of a red spark sends us tripping lengthwise. everything on fire, the smoke blows into our hair, we become gypsies and dance, lick the flamelight from skin. a girl from a different earth stares at us and a dandelion beetle blows its limbs in a glad fury. oh youth, do we only do this to be contrary? what does it taste like to be forgotten at the bottom of a barrel? prostrate against pavement, youthfully impossible and full of indigo lust. the nighttime, acceleration, vibrations assaulting ears, lips assaulting a body, words assaulting all surfaces, silences assaulting all words. this is why we do it: everything melts to a fade, soft focus of wet moonlight. then we fall into a melancholy orange slumber, and the girl sits silent with black black blackest of eyes.