Phobos Mars moon, an unlikely tune, sung through the cone shaped nose of a man on a street, with the head of a horse, immune to passers by, bye. I walk stiffened on warmth down aunt Pea's long orange summer road, downtown, population 1, ghosttown alive with Mr. Louie, a graze along his head, salty brittle mop of hair with stories running free from the curve of his mouth and dried prune lips moving at their own pace finding words for me to hear, sitting at the bar dry decade old, and his stories run on, man on the moon. cauliflower puffs fly daintly by my side, uttering something, the sun not a bother on the years hottest day, as my mind bathes in wooded mountain streams, looking on at plump beavers with felt caps, silly teeth, busy minds ablaze. My soul is a bee, the wind beneath her cute skirt, making love to weeping flowers in this thick red bath. My eyes punch power, 2 spinning suns, tears flow apple drops sugar tongue taste a smile pure of the now, little brown cow, a-clumpty clump Nothing. Stripped of weight, a ducks feather, blowing breeze my guide.
Reason for writing:
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Birth sign: Not entered
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