Wires sky writing lines like slug tracks between stony heaps of fox holed dreams, tracer arcs twisting in, between where the night falls and satellites wheel.
Peel back the night blanket and touch the still warm barrel of the wave tidal marching through the hours between the start and end of something big, Sinatricly smooth and punch drunker than smoke dens and beat bars and guide the words in
filament thin strings from hard points to thinner veiled bullseyes ope' wide. Swim through concussions and air pressed so hard it gives up it's secrets in bright white bubbles of bone jarred condensation.
All around are jackets and unstrung lines of want and have-tos and smolder and grave, but in and amongst the columns of hit and miss there are tangled spider's webs of high rhetoriced intent. Splayed fingers of all that is not necessarily so.
