In mid- August rhythms, within the moist bosom of pulsating lilac, and fern trees. Lucid green nostalgia permeates deep into vast heaving landscapes of soiled greenery, pushing pleasant breezes to the sordid outskirts of the township ravine. Breathing brunette and crimson hymns near dusk, luminous and sparkling towards evening. We do the jitterbug in twilight, as mayflies descend to the grassy surface. Smoke rings assemble in dark trembling clouds, surrounding the park pavilion arena.
Indoors as the hours progress, we mount firm wooden staircases on tiptoe. Our feet scurry drunkenly past casual landings, floorboards creaking, stained glass windows provide scattered beams of light, reflecting off incandescent- metal- light- fixtures. Following you out to the backyard garden, it is now that everything is somewhat okay.
She had blue hair and long legs. She wore her clothes eloquently. I walk these dirty- narrow-city-streets in search of something I cannot find in words. When I first saw her, associating her with this languid laborious ideal, then towards the end of my endearing routine, I reluctantly turn around, making an abrupt pit stop at Seven Eleven, purchasing a pack of cigarettes.
In the stale-breeding-city-sleeping- Summer, I get lost trying to find my way home. Towering-black-smoke-thoughtlessly rises from the rear of a neighborhood delicatessen. I get thirsty, I rest for a brief interval over a 40oz. in a maroon-cushioned-corner-booth, peering through long-iridescent-afternoon-windows, meticulously replaying the days trivial endeavors, recalling vivid-lustful-imagery, between my fatigued and beating temples. I recall her wide windy strides, crossing the busy trafficking intersection, her and her blue hair.
No comments:
Post a Comment