Everywhen

Some of you, you or others, are you among these other crowds or walking all alone, say either it hurts or it aches. Are you a part of these hearts, or an uknown knight, living for tasty blood, living for red flows teasing your wooden tongue. Are you hungry or just fed up, big belly beauties are hanging around. Are displaying visuals eyes are unused to. Champagne, good words, good love gone bad at the time words keep drooling out of souls that haven't asked for such a trip to sands, to snakes, to coughing cars on highway nightmares. A fast eye can follow the white marks on the ground, a slow, sleepy one can only lick the paintings on dark asphalt, on stones, on artificial bones. Give up, other mouthes will tell you stories, keep on and call us worrisome, drown us in anger when the beer is done. Days soon will be nights and there is no way to take the train back. Stupid as it sounds, and words are terribly missing, and words got their tickets while we travel, a hand stuck on our empty purses. I'm in love with a brunette turned candy-like redhead gone blonde and she, not the same she, the she who's my partner in crime, she's diving deep for a black leopard. If we aren't out of this game, we are the game. Period, big butt baby. Here above is Saskia de Brauw, published in Self Service, by Mert who hasn't eaten Marcus yet. Or the other way around.