I know it was the year of 1984 and that he smelt of a thrift store on a Sunday Morning.
He bought a record before he died, it was Otis. His mother loves Otis.
The only voice in his rummaged room was his own.
I think they called him Duckie.
He wanted her voice but she kept saying her phone was broken.
He wanted the rogue red-head with crafty clothes
She preferred the smell of money rather than old clothes
He scribbled on a wrinkled paper,
“The Duckman has left the building.”
With heart broken eyes,
he scratched an itch with a sharp piece of a record.
The news spread faster than old spice cologne
on a claustrophobic strut through
I like the way the wind tries to steal your hair,
curls of sun rays beam.
My skin melted once.
I like my skeleton beside you.
I shattered once.
I like the plaid maze I drift in.
I got lost once.
I like the way you stole me.
Kitty Vato hates when I sing.
A little something I drew in class…I was bored.
Slumped onto a sofa.
Mustard corduroy threads held her.
Hallucigenic headache caused by the scenery.
Wallpaper puked daphodilles.
1976 pulling her lashes.
Lucid dreaming lilac, they call her.
Bowie accompanies her conversations. A subject
so intricate. so
Loneliness is lovely he told her.
Mars catches her at
midnight. Where the sun
Something I found in my journal. Yeah I doodle.
Coffee-colored eyes like to stain. Chamomile tea is sewed to the freckles of my skin. This one guy got lost in tea. Charles Manson is his roommate now. He gave up tea bags for a knife. He traded in his Led Zeppelin records for her eyes. They weren’t on sale this time. Coffee was his companion when he had sleepy eyes. She was his friend in the light. She had Hitler’s heart and Stalin’s smile. They pretended they knew each other. They stroll through the sidewalks like strangers on a Sunday morning.