Blind Melon, Soup.

Constricted hand out in the air.
Crowd kid, around the house,
singing out your lungs top heavy hurt.

Pluck your little river song,
the pace is insignificant,
lint-like albatross,
hocus pocus.

Give me the torrent
of your womb on fire
out in the middle
of all this red madness,
give me something to write
home about
give me a signature in fire
in a field of screams,
give me enchanting
or nothing.

We aren’t about to rehash
the history of every kiss and kick
between us or anything, bud god be damned,
it is divine to see from you again.

Let out the arrow that you pick with
let the bow go heavy as you make
it sail, come on now, make it a weaving,
coarse end, before you kick the door
down again, and stay another week, friend.

Dance for my ears. They are older now,
but still remember every nuance,
maybe even a few new to the jangle.


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