I mold my hopes and dreams out of silly putty, shit and glitter
I’m the second in an incomplete litter
and I’m still a little bitter.
All my lullabies are owl screeches, angels and anarchy
I sleep to the symphonic malarky
Whose name is not on the marquee
The miracles I’ve witnessed are debunkable, gradual and epiphonous
That creator sure put some lips on us
and our tango is serendipitous.
My life is all stand-up, shot down and levitation,
or just a long fucking vacation
in an imagined constellation.
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