Butterfly Lips

this a poem I wrote about a dead fortune teller ....


I once knew a fortuneteller, from the city above
Stuffed with creation and jewelry of sorts
She castled stars of old temples of time
And begged to differ, a with a grimace of ice
Out of the pavement a solider arose
With mirrors of peasants, politely, he proposed:
"I'm an angel, foreseen, within the arrows you carve.
Dissecting rodents, in black hole graveyards"
And it fit so perfectly, like steam from a stove
I had no other choice, no beacon or two
No cataracts, could ever undo-
I forgot, who I was, and started nailing my head
But it damaged just more then our frontal lobe
I was Siamese, a bonding with two
Surgery was nice, it put me to rest
A fog a pinkness that had lips like a gun
With the brightest of hillside-
She held the palm of insanity and became one

She told me once : "All lights will come softly-
Each number will shake, but it's infinite-
And so sweet, ember, I must rise again"
I, blue windmill, made me laugh over my spew
Cherished like thunder, in a bottle of glue
I tucked my moonlight, had sewn my mouth
And lain by the river and with a grumpy old stout

An alligator eye, the night owl's keep-
Judges the fortuneteller with the way she speaks:
"She is dusty inside, without a conscience to spare.-
Her 'tells' are just gardens that burn, lilies will flare-
From coloring books from the past,
Each color will squirm, and build a new direction-
From a village of worms- cascading down butterfly lips"

A preacher remarks, with a compass tattooed:
"It's figment of trust, which you must pursue"
She, took it away, with a slip of the wrist-
A gravestone rose, that nobody knew