Could I truly be the artist of my nightmares –
In some age-old western scene,
runnin’ off-uh cigarettes, the blood on my sleeve showing up to soothe the pain I paint.
Factory fantasies,
a lover on my chest
yada, yada, forgot the rest –

Swiftly, lover’s wife
overlooking fields of purple, prime trim and canvas white.
Adjourn a toast to melancholic vintage tombs
to fumigate goose-feather downs for two runarounds
and drown in hibiscus clawfoot afternoons.
We stare, fair well and hold onto our eyes, printed larger than life, nailed above the couch.
It is a titanium house, buried in the grey. Maybe there is a lake.

Burn it to the ground if I reside without described content.
If you are, too, a solitary dweller,
at least accept the invitation and make my vision your vacation

trade it for grills and baecations
all these thrills are raging and boring
One day, in some age-old western scene,
the artist of my daydreams
sunnin’ like a raisinet, the heart on my sleeve giving up to soothe the brain-ache’s fate
Lactating fantasies,
a lover on my chest
yada, yada, forgot the rest.