And All The Lips Said, “Keep It Pastel and Plump Please”
Girls lift your skirts, and make room for the dogs underneath the picnic table. We’ll all be legends in the back seat of cars dipping tortilla chip breasts in the salsa of their underpants.
First things first, here I am.
All the lips in the basement bathroom of corporate tycoon plazas asked for dope filled bedrooms and kisses of plump pastel colors, but I couldn’t even get the door unlocked.
Walking around with the big spuds, sitting outside the kindergarten, remembering when they couldn’t cut their own meat, or buckle their own shoes. Under their bed sat the world, and they made shadows when cars passed by. No one passes anymore.
They made you give up.
Don’t you remember me? The little big girl? Poor little rich girl? The scene of stubborn skin, the forget me not stones in the elaborate heart of your heart? Stare into the ghost wind air, blowing through your memory.
I’ll still be there. With a tie for your collared shirt.
I’ve fallen into the belly of your indifference, and the people of the city heard it – the fall down; the after hell in the chamber of your ear. I do not enjoy hoisting the workmen you’ve already inhaled, or doctoring their heads, and trading hands for hooks.
Love is the uniform I wear. And my mending itches.