Collisions of blackbirds on a flower inhabited exclusively by pomegranates. It's a night of midsummer, but not a dream. I saw a bright light shining over the woods, and I allowed myself to believe things were changing; it was only a passing car. I feel the owls are laughing at me. Memories of attempted wit gone sad. Don't have many words on the tip of my tongue; a thought hangs over my head like a descending spider. You are endangering my youth. No one to turn to but you. It's not a fashionable thing, but I never succeeded in that anyway. Who knew getting harpooned would feel so good? Tobacco leaves are in your eyes, I'm intoxicated. Kiss me like pink flamingos are dancing around us; it's morning again.