Painting By Numbers

Poetry is cascading water

Flowing upwards to the sky

It looks like silver fishes swimming

Feels hot or cold or lukewarm

I hear it flowing

Smell its sweetness on the thunderstorm

As threatening as Oswald in a Texas bookstore

Sometimes as sour as storm

I am not painting by numbers

I am just blathering

I feel the words soil my creativeness

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The Devil On My Right Shoulder

it might be snowing outside

if I could be bothered

a girl with red lipstick

could be kissing my cheek

the sky could be filled

with ants on the wing

silver fish

darting in foam

at the foot of a black mountain

we could be counting stars

riding a Ferris wheel

licking sweat

from thighs of gold

the days could last

for week...

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