She's almost chemically dogmatic.
She smiles like she wants to cry,
and whispers in my ear.
'Time is music. Time is poison.
Time is a mirror without glass! '
Her eyes swell to the size
of small pancakes.
God, save us from the truths
revealed by funhouse mirrors.
This is the birthright
of all pagans: slow, lingering
sex, fueled by Jose Cuervo,
a Pacific sunset, and
outlandish lies.
The golden trance
of seamless communion.
this was a joy to read and i can't wait to read more of what you've written. -shannon
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A striking title and the content does not disappoint. It is a fascinating study to consider the distortions of social perceptions, tragedy hand-in-hand with comedy indeed, a theatrical concept.