You have to understand here I am; sitting and smoking for a crimson dusk to fall upon my cast chair, 

I haven’t got what it takes to love you like strings of Hendrix’s 

like the skinny smell of marijuana inside a evolved and barren pad, 

like the floating Pacific over your cremated cosmos, 

like a lost man trying to find the road through a forgotten city. 

I have the ability to love and laugh and fly and kick ass and create a sufficient poem; only through the time of sun coloured whiskey. 

Wooden house echoing against the infinite desert isn’t your cup of tea beautiful. 

I am here…triggered and molested…spinning and swearing…loving and lusting and naked, 

trying to make a stand for you for the rest of this paranoid life.