As my tears roll down
As I carve maps of constallations
into my neck with a surgeon's
scapel. Believe my words and
feel my thighs. See the man
in blue surrounded by yellow
stars. Buy me a Porsche. See
my art in museums. Feel the
cat up against the wall. Pick
me up at 8:00. They think Im
lost. But I only have two pupils.
Kiss my iris and burn cigarrettes
in my skin. Hold my insecureties
in a box and record my
answering machine.





© 1998 David Greg Harth
98.04.20.00:00:00@Earth