By Stefan Petcov
Shy, shook, sheltered isn’t true but terrible’s the youth of cracked piñatas bursting platters to the brim bowling bitches Darkness sets as nightfall resurrects inconsequence, an outsider always senses snakes in long grass, park benches playthings for the songs that define a generation, raising me to eyes and wise the human station. Save the saving here, don’t forget me or your shelf, shave hair by hair a tingling sensation serves as a stressful motivation mostly when they call their daughters babes related to the cakes and whispered, an alliteration which alienates the sister’s sapien. Bound by fairies, forks at the gate, oil poured on the heat that’s softer than the blade, snap, crack and proper pops scarce until the drops another time, another convoluted meeting scene, wondered constantly which mould would be cast of the turn of the mean.
I was looking for the right wrong, wasted time on inspirations stray too far or you’ll give see me on a throne. My mirror here a thousand lies, every word I wrote on my wall, that’s why, painted Hope and misery all at once to cry. Same color, same old brunch. One more? That’s at least a hunch which resides within and not without, a heart that pounds clocks into submission shouts the ring of a distant surface, whore out your doubt. What’s the mission? Who’s the purpose? Verses, motherfucker. Verses. One more bar, another prison this winery, that’s a prism, bursted spleen for tickets ripped and papers stuffed in socks, I’m cleaner. Like saloons on Christmas Eve. Cultural shock, that’s dinner.
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