the last few weeks were happy ones, but happy, past past. questions and marks and prints, tainted glass, i used to call them happy shades because they take photographs of the past in the now and the sun has always been around, maybe it takes a long time to become indifferent, maybe i will never have that time. old times and rhymes of empty flowers and silly smiles, fake, hopeful confusion, but i would still be on my feet and the wine flows on and on without touching anyone, down throats and rivers, floating and shivering, holy like blood, oh holy holy holy holy holy holy etc.

moments, i dont think they mean anything












and then the beautiful, beautiful road, oh canada, and your face sketched on it twice

much love, and the realisation

to send me blue valentines
like half forgotten dreams
like a pebble in my shoe
as i walk these streets
and the ghost of your memory
is the thistle in the kiss
and the burglar that can break a roses neck
its the tattooed broken promise
that i hide beneath my sleeve
and i see you every time i turn back

its clear blue skies and coloured cancers and dark kisses, holes in stomachs and empty minds full of half-formed words, thoughts on nothing and lists of all the things that never mattered, and the feeling in the blood that makes you restless, but the boiling chaos is silent, drenched in the quiet of davidson's brooklyn backseats and all those other car rides, in beirut and in 77 and with sheep and in the clouds, but they are gone, somewhere, there's nothing but clear, empty, enraging, peaceful blue and light that makes everything disappear.