These Days

A.F.3 Glass crashing sound, mixed soap box licking, looking to pink Bugs Bunny, Minnie waiting, loops of aknowledgments are searching the last full moon of August. Empty afternoon, shower of weapons, war ending/people laughing, tears dropping on ice-cream choices, displaying silvers and golds while a necklace running, on pearls made of. Washing machine in my stomach, this air is black and blue, like shoes made of whistles, electro-furs and ear rings for Jupiter on a carpet for the winter-carpet for the spring, watching wind moving leaves, and wheels moving cars. Moons are moving seas, roots are moving soil, thoughts are moving souls. Camera flashes shine around while standing on my feet, I dream about your blood, moved by the heart I adore. I’m your crash test dummie, blast on me to show, what I was made for.