Thursday, February 3, 2011

Pallid Eyes

When you called me, I couldn't listen
the signal between your phone and

mine gave me mixed feelings of cajole
and being pierced; like when I was

young, feeding thin steal through skin-
watch it dangle there,

a fingertip motif- to be apart
of something.

But no one understood then.

They said Art was for fags, so I
drew a forest in the snow, it's

cold breath weening rain clouds,
and mix precipitation.

So you can understand now, why
I don't listen the first time, or the


because of the fools, with no Art,
and their pallid eyes.

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