Tainted

Yes, dry. Quite dry there.

Tarantulas all over the ropes that held the horses. (Allegedly)

I stood on the Good law, on the Sheriff's side, becoming (soon) the ONLY side.

On Barren's Edge,

Where the streets appear only on the Sheriff's map,

where the tumbleweeds scrape the surface OF THE HORSES RANGE there is a dusty cliff and he can see the ocean from there.

Who again.....................................................?

you wouldn't know and he tied a horse around his shoe.

Upon the Sheriff's village.

Yes, a village: a new open branch: tainted.

Such molasses falling and falling thick and slowly drowning the tongue of the Sheriff.

"MURDER!

MURDER!!

MUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRDEEEEEEERrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrRRR"

A witch ran across the village,

chased with the fire nearing...

The fog and the sea on her side.

Burn the witch. Burn the witch. Burn the witch. Burn the witch. Burn the w-

Again, the sea on her side.

On the Good side: please, no longer the Sheriff's side.

A black fog around her whispers:"Forlorn is not the rose that wraps the single thorn around the Horse's leg.

Forlorn is the rose that is genuinely dropped sixty-seven times from the cliff that holds a golden Badge in its dusty ground."

An Answer for a Steady Sun

All in all for the better,

the salt in the sea and a big love the leaves the honey astray.

There was a forest in which I

sunny, sun with the dirt

some other balmy hearts

across the black lava

that held your bosom

and helped your cross

around the multiverse

walked, steadily and blocking the dusty rays of the sun.

How strange, a forest that held a barren sun rather than a barren heart.

I'm all in all a better soul,

atop the sacred tears that have divided tangerine love,

in the middle of that sunrise I suddenly found an answer.

Harlow's Prayer

"It spreads, like rivers from my African belly."

What?

Was the old lady foreshadowing a betrayal?

I turned my back at the sun.

There might be better clouds ahead,

above the orchard

where my baby used to play the blues.

Apples, and pepper and I'm already there, back there.

But the orchard vanished: a mirage.

Another unfinished tale.

I saw a man running a knife through a tree.

I looked again.

No one.

I was a pillar of salt.

Lot, where are you?

I turned my back at the sun

and Amy withdrew her eyes from the meadow because the rain had drowned her sunrise.

Ginger, a loner.

I am from the roots, ginger and a loner.

As a broom, the true story wipes the dust from the coffin.

You twist the knife.

(Man squints his eyes, immediately closes his book and wipes his façade)

You ruined me.

I felt like sand,

and betrayed,

and federal,

and risen,

You deserve ripe corn,
inhuman that you are.

But I walked, I squinted my eyes seeking for gold

inland,

I deserve it.

I am Ginger,

and I felt so alone,

the walls were grey come Sundays.

I don't know about those words,

what to expect,

or what is a sun,

I don't know.

I hesitated,

and

what is a sun?

I don't know anymore.

I hugged the air,

merry are the ones that felt like feathers

when a building was collapsing above them.

a Rose Forlorn, Classic.

Odette,

why a rose?

Remind the cast that the play is not over,

Please, remind the pianist to change

the key of the song

(down a semitone)

after the pain

withdraws from the mouth of the rose.

I am waiting for the moment

like a borrowed light aroused, dimly.

As the flame touches the page someone leaves the cast astray.

The piano paused.

And sand started LEAKING OUT OF IT.

The First Light

Between the cold morning and the travelling ice,

I admited to have rushed the harvest.

I rushed it, man.

And it shattered.

It fell between my foam,

I felt it almost reaching your hair,

but barely,

barely love that grew out of it.

Barely anything.

And I stood there,

building a world that never existed.

Am I wandering?

The rain leaves my grey brains coiling.

I walked the walk wisely thinking:

"Now, the scent of coffee brings the harvest back.

Am I ever going to be able to put and end to this?"

Man, let's put the harvest back

and let me love again.

June's Edge

June, you were variegated.

A big fat rat in a New York sewer,

and at the same time

a warm whimsy tropical wholemeal wind in the yellow sun of my Texas heart.

I wish I was her on Mondays.

When the breeze is aligned with the sun

and the harvest is golden-best

and the ducks head south

and the aquamarine reflects a silver light on my sand.

On your sand? : lack of love.

Me being herself can pour torrentials upon it,

The venom is yellow, Lemon.

The venom is green again upon sadness...