Apparently everything you write down in a poem comes true
Especially – they say – if the poem doesn’t rhyme
Which is why I’m writing
In particular order none
Porsche, midnight blue (cream leather interior).
Words. In wild new arrangement allowing new worlds, all worlds, possibilities, things, no things.
Flying things.
And ecstasy.
Of the endless, clifftop dancing naked kiss-the-earth variety
For all of us.
Quick sticks.

Oh and some music to go along with that.