i suffer an incredible attraction
for the dreamers and the dead beats
for the girls with hats and green eyes
for the mad torn minimalists

tomorrow i will die and breakfast
with your side-burned omelet screaming
with your tongue red wet and steaming
with your lips around my omelet

i will call it "father cold pee"
to feel your lungs solo over my heart beat
to paint the scene with brilliant sorrow
to call it precisely what it should be

i need no reason