Graphic Journal: March 8

8 Mar

Because because.  Your blurried effects fall into a sink like Marc Bolan learning to play the harmonica: singing songs of lonesome and knowing dad didn’t know how to bury you when you were gone.

Like a sunset made of compressed air coolant.  Like a pop song made of calligraphy pens.  Like a number one fan shooting you in the chest.  Like a syndicated television series.  Like a sinking ship filled with nylon for hot air balloons.

Because because.  Your isolated hard drive dives like a people’s plane of filling up gas tanks for abandoned jets: 10 points marked up on the board.  Scrabbled as if it was a piano line in the memory of a deaf child.

I am the night sound.

I am that warm feeling you get in your lap after your cat’s been dead for three years.

I am a broken mandolin with hypoglycemia.

Because because.  Your secondary thought pattern selected “lean.”  And I memorized every birth control pill you’ve been on since your mother’s failed.

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