It was all rain, gays, and spring rolls (the occasional stairs too).
Any of them could have been Michael Stipe if they had any inclination.
It’s how cowboy gentlemen know how to but don’t play the accordion.
The squid tasted better after the bombs,
With a hint of the first patented fertilizer.
Stop complaining! Ghosts are the real paparazzi,
And they wonder what you did to eat silkworms every day.
We’re going all in on the exhaust pipes,
resigning themselves to brown on one end
like mediocre cigarettes.
Other people bet on the telephones poles,
What happened to all the glass slippers?
All the little black girls at midnight turn to prison shivs.
People used to wear palm leaves,
unisex skirts with nothing in imagination, ditch dead.
You could get into those tiny sandwiches,
Or lift tons of metal, get into physics,
Collect candy dispensers while considering
How to get a steak knife through your chest.
Nobody was left at the end of the chrome.
Marie Antoinette sorting through a collection of fleas …
Everybody was clamoring to get some huckleberry pie.
Muammar Gaddafi withering on a deserted beach …