I awoke to a black sky,
But the droplets of rain were pink, purple and pale blue;
Shimmering on pane.
A pounding base raising from the floor below,
Fucking throbbing; Pinky Fararge!
As i knit,
To the slow pace of growing teeth.
One hundred million degrees below freezing,
And Natasha buttoning up her eyes,
Bubbling oil heats the cell of cosy,
As the pull of the future helps cavernous walnuts snap into another rise;
As routine marsupials splash with vigor,
Running like cats away from litter.
Winter pallet shifts a tone lighter and lighter and lighter and เบา
Ascending with a drum roll.
A gift of it to that,
Haunted all the way,
There she was on stage, way above my head,
The lower ground strooned with bodies studded with lights;
I sneak amongst them.
The flame haired siren approaches on her belly,
And with a marker she takes to my arms.
Drawings of a high kick in stockings,
Over the Hindi Swastika.
She spits mints into my open mouth,
As i wake up in a pool of moisture and sweaty shivers,
Followed by a turn and back into it.
Grids of flashing colour,
Pink on top of pastel blue squares that outline her frame,
Like a crime scene.
With blood running everywhere as she breaks into the classics.
Finally a beautiful sunrise,
A sunrise more than grey.
Rising above outer-city suburbia,
High above a sorting office and Jews.
Coasting until a crisis,
and then one presents.
The masters of the universe.
Fingertips caressing skin under months of spinney whiskers.
Skull under the years of skin.
Before the black hole brain,
Thoughtful after the news.