Gonnabelate Gonnabelate

Stolen beats and cicadas screech a hissing mess of white noise – I am all wide eyed for tail lights, forcing Rhonda to move forward ever rapidly – undecently, the branches whip past with the speed of someone running late and making sure the route’s cut short – I am already drunk dreaming of printing my last report and smoking slowly by the dumpsters in the almost chilly night where I swear every star is visible as long as you look right –

Sometimes things are so loud I forget that they’re still there – I end up sleeping on the carpet, with an endless feedback blaring in my tiny little ear drums (must be punctured, at least stunned) and dreaming about soft serve ice cream melting onto sandals.


~ by perfectionatrix on September 7, 2013.

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