the stars, the sea, and sleep.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

A Sense of Propriety

The magic triangle in the bottom left corner,
Structurally sound as it stands,
It grants you entrance to an escape.
Intoxicated peace,
Cards, cups and pockets
Electricity without sockets.
Los Angeles is an ocean of soft fire
And I lightly pinch the spark
That dances on this one wire.
A single tingle ascends my arm
A little more startle,
A little less harm,
A little less charm,
That now dangles from your phone.
Smoke dances on the drapes
Names are thrown,
Some stick like tape.
Others slip like ice
And swirl back like the deepest eyes
Dressed up or buttoned down,
This is a joyous, boisterous sound.

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