pinkelectro

THE MUSE, by yours truly.


If it's the way it shatters,
shall we not break hands?
(But only if it's the first shake.)


It makes no difference, the brands on my arms
or my clothes; my wallet is empty,
train off the tracks and blame
is not my own.

The first step is admitting yourself to something greater
than the you
the world revolves around.


In the folds of a leather jacket we find
a man desperate for the sacrament.
In the dreams of a young woman you find
the aptitude of strangers.
To line a walk with old phones and memories of ships;
we are stones, and emptiness the
throw
away.




I am the hand that turns down the bed,
turns away the factions in your head,
I am the scissor kick of solitude,
the hair dye on the floor of your
self-evolvement.

I am the grains of extraction so gingerly
placed upon your mirror.
Dollar bill adjacent.


Don't I manuever so quickly into the vein?