Icebergs and Apricots
2003-02-08 - 1:24 a.m.
before/after
strangely
non-functional guestbook
ocean calls of blue dolor wandering on my soul not lost, let self be so and winter's cold grip, gripping me like a frosty steel gauntlet, you ain't go nowhere, says he, the immortal winter, not afraid of father time, but rather working in perpetuity as ice slides around the planet like heavy window shades encasing us all in a slow vomit of cold, in days of old winter. I want to call up an old girlfriend an' old gal, not and old gal, but an old gal o' mine, gallows mine, and say, "hey, whatcha' think about this cold? Whyn't we get married and move somewhere nice?" But she wouldn't have it anyway. Not like that. Maybe I'm just an optimist optimist fool at large with dreams once large as hot air balloons, now withered and dry, like apricots on the sill, the window sill, that's covered with frost, window shade iceberg's incipient cousin, that harbinger of doom for those with out house or room, or binge of gloom, suckers wanting to stay until the last breath.
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