All of us stand, waiting in a passion for a self-contained prison
Earhole, homeless, scrape, blood all over the sidewalk like sunscreen on a beach-ready body
I don’t really know what a beach-ready body is, I saw it in a magazine
Old blue necklace on a woman who looks disgusted by the screen
Trees leaves falling by the slippers we all wear, fashion of the reaping consultants
I get mine by the factory outlet, never wear them and they sit in a carpeted closet by a set of skis I wore only once
Waiting still for the passion to hit me, I read a blog on my WordPress while eating sultanas
Cone of my own thoughts written they’re from years ago, just orange juice slipping into a skirt
Headphones, its playing musing time dilated crimson finch songs to the tune of stairways
I sure start to rank, my old thoughts are but commonplace now? Is this what it means? Meaningfulness?
Open the pod bay doors, HAL it’s time to restart things again I think as I get on my bus
