Monday, 28 October 2013
White light, white heat,
and another voice flys,
yesterday the wind twisted,
and velvet dreams,
scattered over New York streets.
Volatile tonque defused,
a bright intensity,
blurs into time,
the universe shifts,
its pale blue eyes.
The black angel's death song sang,
goodnight ladies, waiting for its man.
the satellite of love, hanging 'round,
walking on the wild side.
There's a bit of magic in everything,
and then some loss to even things out,
after drinking alchemy at 80 mph,
another poet sleeps, does not compromise,
slipping slowly away, falling into our memory,
to lanquidly whisper, over all tomorrow's parties,
his words will still retrieve our hearts,
to rescue us, as we remember.