Between Your Legs








Between Your Legs


Yesterday, I woke up under
a strange ceiling. I dreamed
I was a stray bullet at an irrational angle
or some shit like that.
Something, definitely better than what I can say about
this place. Maybe we've never been here or maybe I never
caught up with you. The point is, you are not here 
and nothing is as you said. L. A. is not a city of stars,
it is a city of clouds. Absolute stupid-amorphous-gray-clouds.
L. A. is, in any case, a ghost under a large cemetery of floating dreams.

I want to go, smoke between your legs, hear you
lie to me in deserts, storms, ammunition, ghosts, pins, wings, rain, night.

Your hair, my knees, your loneliness,
my grief: black chestnut, black you, me>you ...
Understand? I want to take you to the cemetery 
of dreams to watch infinity die.




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