words, they keep
zig-zagging like morning hair.
far gone, is the flamingo sunsets
the unfettered joy of being handled,
poised and tangibly pronounced
as someone else's boy.
those words, they keep
shinning down glass drainpipes,
scraping more skin from the meanings;
on days chained with skeletal blues,
my mind is too barren to bear fruit
memories dowsed too deep in balsamic.
and as for the words, they crumble
in a mass of moulding murmurs
and i wish i was a singer instead.