The brake lights of the boulevard throb on us like a burn. The quarters in my pocket are silver pieces, and we can sail away to the moon on them. We can ride the rainbow dragon.
Yes, the tulip temple prostitute is really here on earth for the night, wearing a plaid top. And I am shivering with excitement to enter her temple.
This spring canvass was stitched together by every soul that lived a lifetime without having the chance to fall in love with a high holy woman. Screw you, oven-baked love. Adore you, break-my-chest-open love. My promiscuous princess, my gumdrop slut, I am floating into the cosmos, reaching back and trying like hell for a fistful of that plaid top to take you along.
This is no x-rated John Hughes-type moment. Tonight, I am worshipping Ishtar. Tonight, the homeless are giving me money and the taxis are cleaning the atmosphere. Tonight, I am a shiny birthday balloon tugging upward and smiling like a clown that just let go of the string.