How come great things only happen when I'm not in the mood? The last time I was here there was a revolution Now there's old yellow paint on my elbows And photographers running to catch the bus I don't know the meaning to half of those. But there's pink clouds in the sky And a moon half full And the city before me looks functional There's a strange kind of frantic stillnes Purple and bruised And flowers blossomong out of my armpits. You say I only write for myself You're true And your truth, it holds me like a towel after bath If I am an artist to you I'll smile The dust the wind blows knows I'll return home to a warm television Once the night here gets too crowded with figaments. And I love him still and i love him still I'm attempting on a jagged love song an abstract swan song.
'And your truth, it holds me like a towel after (a) bath' What a wonderful, tactile image! The first four lines contain fascinating observations and offer a reader promise. That's why we read ahead. Keep it up!
*claps* I really enjoyed this one honey! Too many great moments to quote but I must repeat once more: "How come great things only happen when I'm not in the mood? The last time I was here there was a revolution Now there's old yellow paint on my elbows And photographers running to catch the bus" "The dust the wind blows knows I'll return home to a warm television"
