Description:
Words are art, like painters they must be explained in query. So I hang a mirror to capture stars and I write without ink. In a silent stifle, I adore your frame, bent in slivers of your eye's rain. I picture your lips saturated to drench this poet's sail from destinations only a pink moon can mauve. I crossed lines to depict the anecdote from a raconteur's veins in vain. I want to fuck all words so I can finally say what I can speak no longer... that I loved you.
Brief description: I want to write a million words faster than Jack Kerouac did. I want to decipher Dylan and answer youthful upheaval. I want a deeper instrument than Cohen could speak, a softer cough with whiskey's rudeness like Bukowski's drunken technique. I want to experience my cranium creak, like jazz I constrict and strengthen every anticipation of boredom. So Shakespeare I will befriend...