Soleil across the whisky traders hands

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Like the minds eye thudding on the back seat of your car, begging to be let free.

Submitted: February 11, 2007

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Submitted: February 11, 2007

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Give me a secret
Another secret
Give me the jack down blazer fist
Give me the rundown gossip fits
Give me the black star rotting core
Give me the milk toast humble bore
Give me the ancient chinese script
Give me the pulsar teenage lips
Give me the papers pedigree
Give me the shoeshine anarchy
I think my head is going to explode
I think my mind is remote controlled
I think my blood runs desolate 
'Cos baby I'm a waking disease
Give me the boom box bottle bitch
Give me the tree trunk tangled witch
Give me the babies missile child
Give me the pistols molten miles


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