got no time to be your lifeguard.
Drowning used to be my game in the dark nights. The Silver Fish danced to the blindspots only to kiss a finger as I slept on an old futton. The bed was too good for a soul with stains like mine. Sad daddies of children with no birthdays. I see the baby hairs in the corners of my eyes as I sit in empty rooms dreaming of clicks and emails. I can’t be a lifeguard, I’ve been swimming me entire life in lakes made of Milo. West India of the Western world calls out to me.
“B da truff,” is the voice of the wind. I found her name in the sleep at the edge of my inner eyes. She is hard but soft, kind but stern and alive and yet never born.
Madness in the paint drops.
