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At rush hour i race apronless making us
an English breakfast. We have high stake
candy, Coke Zero smuggling ahead
sweaty palms at the cinema. Our first
meal of the day as the bad eggs
with a bed time of 5am? Bruncheon
supper ~ no good-nik beatniks, beans,
upright suns, tomatoes all sizzling
and shmoozing in the same pan. It's a
party and miraculously i don't pop
any yokes until after we see Inception.
After that i can't truly be sure
if the totems we fondle
in our pockets can ever be trusted.
My screwdriver tastes like ice and
screws without a straw, so i must be bright
awake on the shore of sleep.
Wait—whose subconscious are we going into, exactly?
week12: 1, 2, 3
http://poetesss.tumblr.com/PAD
