In Barcelona morning is actually afternoon.

The party I left empty and sold short has arrived on the door step.

An after after party.

I’m swept out onto the street.

There are lots of little dogs and some of them have little clothes too.

Lighter pierced ramblings of divine meaning dissolve like ash on the pavement floor.

‘6 different lives in the same city 6!’ he boasts.

‘When I woke up this morning I didn’t even know where the fuck I was’ I overhear.

They are painted, and the drawings are sharp as a ruler and as piercing as a compass.

I like the indifference, it’s admirable with all these ‘norms’ walking about.

Before I know it my face is being painted too and I’ve been deemed ‘a natural kind of girl’.

Messages are lost in translation as kids run about.

‘All cops are bastards’ is written on a wall to the left of me.

In the apartment (after one line of speed) I am reduced to behaving like a ravenous pigeon with its beak strapped back murderously flinching back and forth for more.

These balconies are full of mist and lives hang out on display.

Music melts down into orange peel beds of oblivion.

My chatty American friend is now wrapped up and fumbling like a child.

She is warmed with a cloak of innocence fallen over her face.

The drug fused ramblings of before have begun to dwindle as many people tire.

I am left to contemplate…

‘Have I left living for art? Or is art the art of living?’

Thrown below a retro mattress are altruistic tendencies to judge.

I smash my invisible mantle against the wall, scribble nonsense into the air, and bite chunks off my pen.

I’m trying to stop running the same old rat race of falling off my chair….But his smile, it keeps forming painted fragments of ribbons in the sky and remnants of last weeks fate.

‘It was good at the start’ the music warns.

When we stare at a box we can’t help but repeat ourselves.

A girl arrives.

And time illuminates she is a woman.

Straw hair and pale like color of the kitchen tiled floor, she leaves a pool at the front door.

She needs a fix.

My lungs creep up into my throat as I choke at the site of old habits.

My conscience holds fast at the mask of a great ship perked onto my forehead.

A bag of sugar is begging to be opened.

It’s screaming to be glazed over anything and everything, so that we all have rose colored glasses.

Imagining Frank Sinatra, standing upon the chair, swinging back and forth, singing with his old skool mic and smile full of cheese I manage, to

throw away the looking glass, peel back the sands of time, and stretch out the dubstep beats that are like the elastic bands kids jump in and out from.

I have cravings for bored games, but all I have is a buffalo soldier, turning and turning  in my hand.


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