The Four Seasons

Eight stars make A soft solfege Above this motel Where there are never Stars. I let a skinny man Put his long thick dick in me for you So we could break our hearts The way you want me to. Somewhere a white Wall stretches up behind the backs of a tribe Whose obscurity protects its secret from the common World and the connivances it ordains. What time is it. What season is it. I don’t know. The moon blows green Gas into my skull I want to hide what I dream In a big boot, and wear the boot And starve as I lean upon the boot of my destitution And drag The truth as a gimp would drag the weight of her body. That would give me a feeling of honesty.