She walks with dead in her eyes and
speaks of dead in her throat – that
lovely woman with cigarette forests in ashtrays
and swirling ravens for hair.
Where are you going sweet one, dearest fawn
of darkened pathways at noon.
You were laughs of lunch, you the stuff –
so much for that.
Nighttime driving seeing double dippers and naked romps –
so much for wildings – they count for nothing now.
Garbage of song list memory. Rotten the secret twinkle and
lost, are you to me.
Shoo Bop Shoo Bap