All my muses cut from high school,
And now my body lags from the breathless
Irrigation cured from
The sandbags of the flooded rivers;
Or whatever they have been doing; these rivers
Like candles on your birthday floating into your
Lips as you inhale;
And it is a very sad thing, like being a city in the
Middle of this country:
You get wonderful thunderstorms and ancient cartoons,
But you really cant feel a thing,
How these oceans are pushing you with your turmoil;
And I guess you’ve never had to find out,
Or fill the concentrically fluming of the parades I
Keep for you,
As if flames lit for the fuses of your high mass;
If you’d actually wanted a lover, then we’d both have the
Very same children
Fast asleep under the over pass;
But you don’t actually love those things you can use;
And yet you still are my awful, awful, venal muse; so what
Do I have left to prove.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Have you ever done halucinogenics?