radio ghost records float through the dusty air. black lace and empty cigarette holders are washed away in contraband whiskey rivers. pupil-less eyes run up walls made of dirt and glitter. thousand toothed mouths light matches with one smile.
faded choruses sing.
turquoise feathers melt.
electric smoke settles.
the phonographic telephone rings.
'when are you coming for me?" and echo on line twenty three said.
then. a city wide black out and a dial tone.
No comments:
Post a Comment