Welcome Ghosts
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Lift your head pretty one. Close your eyes
Do you feel the dew on your eyelids the mist on your lips?
Part your pretty lips pretty one
Let me taste your pretty little mouth little one
Open your eyes little one : This is the sunrise
The sunrise in seas in traffic
Behind the conglomerate towers of dew and dreams
Lift your head little one
This is my love
This is my life little one
You are my life little one
You in the dice in the parking lot in the field of my arms
I wrote this while listening to Welcome Ghosts by Explosions in the Sky. Great music right there.
She had a cat and that was the least of it. She had towels – not the terry cloth kind – she had towels of the grainy kind; the ones that scratch your face if you rubbed too hard and too fast. She was used to the towels she had though. Apparently her bulls were also quite used to her lean, long, slender... towels. “towels are towels” they would say. They never really cared if her towels were rough, in fact, they quite liked it. They actually loved it when she would wrap her towels around their muscular broadsides. They did not mind if she smoked a pre-coital cigarette while osculating with them. The white stick hanging limply in the side of her mouth would sometimes burn them when they got too rough. She was the divine Zeus to Europa. Her cat had much to say about that. “How could you say it was 'like throwing a hotdog down a hallway' when you're still on it then, love?” Her cat was a hefty one and it would often resemble a camel's hard stepping pad on her gym days. Her name was Minora. The woman's name was Minora. (was is because she died). Her cat's name was Marjorie and it was a dyed Marmalade. They had a lab, yeah. No one understood the word play. But her towels, oh. When they weren't grainy or rough they could be smooth as silk like a lazy drawl or a mouthful of honey. On her active days, Minora could contract. She could shrink so tightly small that everyone [all the men at least] would go, “Oh this innocent! Miss, wog, eh? MIZUAGE!” They would always scream her name. The bulls would scream her name. But often her name changed. Sometimes she'd be Suzie, Lip or Glandale. Karen, Bev or Rugth. Rught, Rugth... oh she did not have one of those. Her towelette was smooth. She had failed to grow one in her glen of delights. Whenever she was cowed by her bulls, yes, they were hers, her shoulders sloped ever so womanly and it resembled forever rolling hills. But her hills were not hills. They were abundant with life and they glowed with pride. Only her hills could have expressed such pride as she would puff up her horizon. The noon sun would leave shadows that could devour her bipads. The pot in which she manufactured those organics to chemical energy so she could move about was also a sight worthy of odes. Rising and falling for each breath – it had a button. This button was neither here nor there but it was there. Right there, easily missed. And you just did! Oh what a shame. Her HEAD! She had gaping optics that could turn a man to stone and his stones to wood. Each flutter of those flaps of fleshy skin on the frillies of her optics could cause a hurricane in China all the way from where she stood which was here and there and San Francisco. Those two caterpillars carefully shaped caterpillars above her optics rose and fell in joy, surprise or bad weather. It was said she was the most beautiful personification of whatever could be cowed by a bull in a bright green and orange pasture.
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