hellsforheroes

Tin soldiers are always about babes.
As is summertime and wine
drunken mashed rum of virginity
sipping in grails, the infinite spring.

Not good enough, the percentage
I can not explain to you
of pregnancy that dies in words
Medical records of abortion.

Eat an egg
like it was a moment of grandeur
of golden spectacle, but innate and inert
commonplace like a mothers love.

Like an inmate, at a brothel, the day after
the sunrise hitting his face
his brothers motorcycle and syphilis
Fuck antibiotics, Id rather be mad and gratis.

How is going to drive you home tonight
The cars.
They will tell my heart to you the piano
and with golden strings swim melancholy into marmalade.

People, prisoners, ashtrays, I am burning up
my brother Bonn likes marshmallows and pussy
I like alt. country, a porch, a fat dube, and pussy
God is late spring, and the effortless sunlit horizon.

If I were a habanera pepper, an orange jack olantern
and I had a metamorphosis or reincarnation
being a season, I, would need so much beer
to quell my fucking soul.

I am a Mexican taco dip shy of heaven
heaven for me to be in
requires drugs, and helix sky
like breathing out of your eyelids.

Listen when you close them fast
tight, and feel them breathe
heavy dragging slumbers of monarchs
towards the sex spring manner.

And the women are wearing
nothing more than evolution
to kill the young strings of ties
and be naked for dead.

Vandalism of my soul
I know nothing beyond catharsis
and spring for joy
Joy, joy, joy to the shaky allegory.

I became Jesus, and here it comes
for in the dying of the sunset on my balcony
I saw something like a flash of blue and raspberry
it was god painting Picasso.

I had my eyes closed people.
This is the breath of god.
The spring avian air and dewy
breathing through eyelids.

Making mud for pyramids
and generations of seed
Many nations of blessings
and my wife taking me in.

Air, silent wishing air
cloak me, because I am crooked
I am revolving of regal tenderness
I am a tree just waiting for bees

In the house of Paul, in. the corridor gates
suns have roofs just for me, 60 degrees
blooming with no allergies, just lubrication
as I only hate dying, for me, always dying.

Benedictions of my rabbis fingers
are naked lakes never feeling more holy
except when you guess my answer
eternal, infinite, infinitely eternal, airtime.