recipe

a mass of people in a midan midan of snowflakes no not snowflakes of flags of stone almonds and rice with milk with powdered white steam making tea come out of choo choo trolleys and more milk for the barley of pale male robes hanging down on cotton candy by the shiny lady who is wearing metalic pants ultra light of the semiramis intercontinental shining through dusk smoke bomb painted silver of crowds and crowds and crowds and crowds with tin bowls and itchy town faces who are neither winning nor loosing from the crying gas

You face me like an Atlas, broad and far in scope, distance, I can surely travel there. Sometime. Sometime soon? I'm seeing Hungary in your eyes now. And the baths of Budapest. Water baby, come with me. Lets go to one of the Poles. Or Poland? We can live an underground life in the kracks of... Moldova, up the river, down the path, of your nose. I know we will eventually. See eachother there. at the mouth. 

Spare

he drowns inside his own eyes. steep the water goes. flowing out out and into thin air. he doesn't know. he doesn't care. he thinks this is the way it is. the world and the air. this thick smoggy headache city. his babies swim away from her there. without a care. 

Nothing more. No. naked eyes love her for its as if she has always been there.

The smell is stale. It can't wake up. It can't open its eyes to breath fresh air. The air is not fresh anymore. If it ever was. his eyes are deafened by their depth, damp trodden brown, he stares alot now. 

Its damp down there.

spare