• Tune me.
    Tweak me.
    Time me well
    and I’ll spin you anywhere.
    Purple haze holds no comparison
    to the heights we could reach.
    How can you call game when
    you haven’t even lit up the torch?
    Maybe if you didn’t trip so hard,
    I’d get to see those pulsar eyes
    radiating with my daily fix
    of romantic gibberish.
    Your hand in mine slips up

    and grasps instead your pants.
    Yes, I’m sucking up for the next
    time you pipe me butterfly kisses
    under the smoky sheets of your thoughts.

    Puppet me.
    Perfect me.
    Promise me tonight
    is not just another speeding escapade
    that shot the moon and missed the
    exit. It’s high time we get going
    back to that shimmer in the sky.
    So I fly, but I’m only trying to
    tempt my angel further to grounding.
    Acid-ink blotting away charming times
    making me wish to join your star-strung-out
    roadway. How am I to hop on if
    your hand in mine slips up?