Scarred Streets

the streets are scarred for good and we know it after the hits of untamed hearts after this abstract damage of cyclic returnings there's a window in my chest a sight of iron garden and crystal steam where colour of poplars recalls moss in the living room and her veins in the dark the skies are striped of equinox sabbath over the cities full of empty people cities full of mannequins over the valleys of sordid poppies perfumed mists and magnetic trees as my shoes walk around the moonlit woods through cobblestone plains, by mythic fields the war of kisses rages in gravel pits on days like these these octagon days and there's a storm in the kitchen sink there's debris for dinner the orchestra of germs in a room of dahlia invokes all the nymphomaniac angels all air rats and arachnid armies with passion of cold-blooded lovers oh, what a circus! that's why my luggage is haunted in floodlands, ready to depart for the taxidermy heaven for I'm the king of the sandcastle just a smoke child on a paper planet with glass floors and concrete shoes and yellow lorries in umbrella lakes with my brain lantern and pet mallacoderm the rabid rooster will guide my way down the bronze boulevard with chocolate six-shooter in my hand only because the streets are scarred by our love and we know it