The Golden Age of Bronchitis

Pass me the color of her lips,
A buoyant luster,
Which seeps through dog fur,
And contains the essence of her smile.

Night will pass over,
And tomorrow with the Sun
A bouquet of cumulus,
Beckoning the birds.

At night my asthma
Starts to flare and trumpet,
Gaining great glory,
LSD hymns proceed
Out of the mouths of infants,

I circumvent capitalism,
With painted toads.

And does the moonlight
Destroys any hint of day,
My face hardens,
And you can no longer tell,
My heart from stone.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s