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.