coke can paradise

With blazing wings to set the scene - storm through the dressing rooms and the cosmetics facility, beyond the furniture stores and the industrial catering solutions unit and beholding there, stage right it is, this life itself!

The museums of logs are fallen worthily and mighty through the lakes of your eyes, with pardon me and reconstruct the supersphere, glottal stammers and sky reflections, repeated relentless a thousand simple mirrors and highly charged obsessively polished glass stacks, the repetition representing a perfection above and beyond the really thought or ever seen. Bobbing monotonous but enchanting and encased in the history of the world, preserved through the ages and centuries, the wooden hollow husk of man.

And out but in of once grand and now dry lake beds, shopping trolley decays and aluminium drinks cans, past proud striking and brightening logos now weathered, faded, beaten by the sun, powdered pastel memories set through a broken TV, poking as epic monoliths from the fetid soils of a fallen angel.

So where can we be in all of this, you and I? - our eternally wrong shoes send us stumping through our minds and rambling through the silver-crested ice cream cone mountains of the dreams we might only read, drink and talk about, our ends and never our beginnings, to fuck until with spasms and twitches we swearing and weary grip each others thighs until the nails of our fingers leave indents of being, insistence and memorial in the glorious flesh, and then to make ourselves sick with coffee to keep our eyes open and think hard about breakfast and dance into bed.