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.