Bourbon word.

There are no red painted rooms At this point 

And adding four to ten to white wash age

available by the burnt out terrestrial of four  

Surveyed by kites Of the forewarned and foreword 

With steady succession of no comments 

As fever takes the reins towards first regressional steps 

I can’t hold or feel my legs as you run and fly 

As I bring myself to look at the broken sax paw.

But no regrets as I walk across locking pin 

at water whispering Junction and dive in 

as Meditation of a mind that’s ready to go  

can you see some of this wreath hasn’t been rewound

Tapes being laid down to don’t breath 

a stitched bourbon word.

That I haven’t heard of as a black box of recordings

is opened up to be replayed and spun

As people rise recognitive friends names are abducted  

by the architects of rising ladders as a back drop

To aid induction into a roll call stage school.
As learners start a library climb on the heels

Of Greeks expression discography dancing to 

A spectrums of chromed Dio hills linguism

And meeting puffing billy on his Island bed 

surrounded by the hollow points and silo eyes 

As orange boxes are raised in my sleep.
That Became a X Ray developing crime scene 

Show of Atlantic journals of Jane 

Coat of arms exchange and make a ladybird 

Pass of toga party girls that bee line and laugh 

as they climb into dark glass rides to their last dance

Distant western Pergola of weather stations 

Raising Sprung Barr lines now arrowing a higher descent

as we stand by to watch their unstoppable ride.