Poll: all the pretty colours...
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View poll results: all the pretty colours...
4 57%
1 14%
2 29%
Voters: 7.
top two go through.


The sacred fire was cradling its last logs
before its sleep at the end of summer,
and night was settling itself into the sands.
Your eyes were milky moons
and your fingers danced through your dreadlocks,
holding each one alone up to the fire light,
blurring their colours in the smoke.
You told me what each of their stories were.

This red is the rock atop the mountains
and this orange is that of the dunes,
this is the blue of painted buildings,
this is the green of crops with their flowers in bloom,
this is the white of the stone in the cities
and this is the yellow green of the mint tea
and this is the gold of the stone by the shore
and this is the turquoise of the sea

We're leaving at the setting of the sun.
When the fire burns out we'll pack up the tents
and hitch back to the van.
We'll leave with the cool night
sinking into the silver of the roads
with spliff smoke in our throats
and blowing out of the windows.
If we drive quickly we'll be there by tomorrow.

And in the morning they rode towards technicolour dunes
and I rode through the metal highways, until England was in view
down a long black tunnel caked with gasoline smell.

I called her from a payphone
and through a thousand miles of cable
asked what Morocco was like in summer.
Through the high tones in her voice
the desert shone through.
She sang these dunes can dance;
they miss you



From a low point in the Andes;
a vantage point of splendor
and prosperity,
all I can see are llamas.

They weave across mountainsides
drawn by an unseen force of natural motions.
They are like waves;
breaking against Andes' rocks.

The rocks just giggle,
as each wave coughs and sputters
into foam. Into llama coats.

A wino chuckles heartily;
sliding one of the coats onto his wife.
They've shared two bottles tonight;
and his mood is greatly improved.
Hardly remembers that he's a failed
politician. "Communism" he had cried;
and free trade they had wanted.

She trips on her way out the door;
and he helps her up.
It really is lovely out,
not a good day for bruised knees or egos.
They find a bench under the stars.
She mends her limb and he his brain.

It's never a good day to be broken.



Airport Exit
4 Miles

I took her hand at take off
and glanced at her eyes
then off to the side
until we were all safe and sound
floating up in the sky
dangling high from the clouds
and as I moved to withdraw my hand
she held on
and on
and on
and ****
and and and

She kissed his cheek
at Angkor Wat
and they sat
on the stone
a million years old
and watched the fog roll in
and felt the air get cold
and his hand get cold
and his stare go cold
and on my grave I wont let you go
until we're all gray and old
and rotten like those ruins
and overrun like that jungle
and wild and alive
but just gray and old
then I'll let you go

The plane flew across the sky
slower than any shooting star
colder than any truths or lies
but she fell asleep on my shoulder
my cheek on her head
sharing a blanket
and a makeshift bed

4 Miles isn't all that far
when you're driving on the highway
or when you look up at the sky
and way up in the stars
there's a blinking light
with two stranger
buying time
waiting to circle in
and be circled by native children
and give them all that they can
and run off into the night
towards Angkor Wat
so overrun
so wild
so alive
and so close to letting go.
There's only one thing we can do to thwart the plot of these albino shape-shifting lizard BITCHES!
There's only one thing we can do to thwart the plot of these albino shape-shifting lizard BITCHES!