Whirled, I must be nuts.
To simply crossa—–road’-
I need flashes of dysfunction to park alongside.
Come off of it!
There is no need to wrap yourself up in aluminium like that,
And there is no need to bark at some, any, every damn tree.
The tree might appear like some awesome dude,
clear and angelical,
your sun-kissed threat.
The road may be materialized projections,
all peeling at the truth.
Yet, regardless of that, your heart,
still bubbling,
is oozing out your name as you piss on the nature strip.
This so called dysfunction is clearly in the air.
The truth must be nestling like a frightened animal does behind your knee caps.
And there never is a calm before the storm.
Instead a bleeding like broken down tooth on the corner of the police station.
It is going through all the motions, you know oh so well,
a mis-used past.
There is no reason to pull in, or in fact,
pull out.
To stay on this die hard side of the road,
or to cross to the other.
These lines may smell like vinegar,
like madness for so long.
But that is no reason not to love.
There is never a reason.
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