get mello

hey, chocolate
hey, me
how is this southern night so quiet? where're my bigbugs
just the subtle quiet singers tonight?
and topless bandana'd summer teens on the porch across the street
in hammock house
the forsale sign is gone
hey, pretty mansionhouse
I love it in you

on dying

Good work we, us. The matutional song lighting the road and my own mind wandering along with the ta-hoo, ta-hoo, ta-hoo of the singers in tallest branches. Letting the pink-tufted trees guide me. Taking the mind out of everything, not letting. The things never to say. It's too late at night to let open a mouth, set forth the ends sharpened. With only the strength of a gentle beast on me to warm me, the memory trying to drain down till gone. But too much doubtfuls.