Traipsing through shelves
of books alone,
I see two girls, bookends to some tomes
Plucking novels like lilies
engorging their minds, and
forging fantasies, with assistance
from cover-hunks
in saccharine poses,
embracing their mannequins
while gnashing on roses

Parting and departing
from luscious lips, chapped tongues
lightly lick
key phrases, from locked faces
law says I'm too old
but, for them, much too young

I can tell they're the types of girls who
turn something borrowed
to something blue
discard something old
for anything new
who don't get out of bed for any less than

Ten inches
from the door
I turn, leave the pair
and absorb the humid air
from a just-rained sky
and release
a tribute from my eyes

fog encased orbs, shining
the path to my car
my El Dorado

Theres definitely something to that song
'Build me up Buttercup', with it's Motown like melodies
and soul-group harmonies
that makes me wish the car I was about to
ram so carefully, into that tree
was a '57 Chevy

and I think I'll hope for a
four car pile up
John Lee Hooker style
Boom Boom Boom Boom

Where sugar-starved flower plucker's
and romance novel posers pucker
on the taste of glass and steel

El Dorado, El Dorado
why must I always be
on the path
to El Dorado
i need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me, yeah.