Country Music
an online journal of poetry
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years straining to move
like a rocket ship on strings
I get to the foot of the
do a rain dance
spin out of control
debauchery tasted like Spring inside my head
wrinkled canvases
in constant need
of aphrodisiac
a few exceptional hours
unfolded a filthy painting.
I would give you a full moon for that
stars on the trail up to morning.
In the mirror they may look yellow, foreboding.
I would wash the past from last night,
bring   the sound of habitual promises for luck.