Nothing locks down in me, no image stands out. The weird instance of rain, the grand scale of personal architectures and the living plants divide me. Beyond that, nothing, no desire. A city so hot with these Herms. The stars burn out on the backs of buses.
Morning glories drink sundrops of rainlight.
Miss, the steps are melting in your beauty. Gooey, wet dreams are made of mushroom gardens and flooded lips. Festoon the freak shirks of white shirted collar snobs. Beat the tripwire party mix in your shiny doo. Baby, you die, and live hot.