crystals charge at the window sill healing my hangover 

dried coral once technicolor dream-walking in liquid blanket maps. 

Oh dear, this one goes out to my demi-fossilized mind

of twisting bourgeoise house plants. 

 

my philosophy is the plastic hook ready to crack at the first solar flare 

I'm ready to disintegrate in the coffee shop, into the tasteless acoustic, doubled guitar

which is strummed in an upbeat hipster 2/4.

 

I'm ready to be taken somewhere else another interface to drive me

to a higher form of insanity than i am currently capable of achieving.

 

am i a hack artist?

 

gnawing at the plastic hooks of these hanging green pets, under or over watered

waiting for the little thread to snap!

so maybe soil will hit the floor, get swept up and thrown outside, never to look down on this fake wooden tile again.