The field spread out before him a disgusting mix of colors intertwined and mating
Mixed and sexual red of the street light mocking, promising
A felt feeling that never comes
A meant meaning that never feels
Yet he felt and felt until his veins fled the bleeding
Frightened by their own circular work
And he felt that it was momentary and forever
And he knew that the stop light held st benedicts thoughts
And he thought he knew it all, the Guinness, the Indian girl
It all made sense in his system
But it left out tomorrows thanksgiving
The sitting around a bird industrial farmed for commercial interests pure and puerile
A cold rejoinder to pretensions and tortured ethic racks
He took a small breath and bit
His smoky thought containing and obscuring dreams of her that never eased and always burned atop his minds fuel
Tire fire observed and observing by the heat of the blaze distorting faces in the glow
Fret and frer and flame atop his ever burning thoughts
