~That California-drift musta never left
the whole time at his hotels where the worry most definitely fell on deaf ears--maybe because they weren't Parisiens; maybe because they saw it in his glassy eyes, in his woman's ambivalence...
He was calm in his Meditate-terranean psyche,
the European style a velveteen and soothing balm to his eyelids, ones that winced of seeing fame pervert his curiosity
His belly and his blood both boiling
mid-morning or early afternoon, send that girl to all her tortured whacked-out friends; counts and barons of countries that only exist when you've got heroin in your pocket...
She begs the misery, from me, he thinks,
the wandering Dionysus in his fetes of wine and erotic relvelries reflects a moment before
So she wasn't there this day...Left his questions singing sirens in the air, the bacchanalia began, but the muses were all slaughtered as his lust turns to anguished confusion unclear
His girl, where was she? She reminded him of a loaded gun so well...
And there calmly, with his visions of hypnotic dance and gambles with the suns,
he slipped away from us
this god, the immortal poet of azure daparture,
A mournful voice echoing in the stars~ |
Submission Name: Morrison
