The ghost writer sighs

the ghost writer sighs - wishin' he had some fingers
to run them all over her light-yeared hair
to run them through her
waterfall
skin
to wrap himself up her thighs
to get lost in her thought's wild
birds of Eden
&
rivers
to find comfort in the beauty of her rawness
fury
blisters
fevers
& ultimate surrender
to her pastures
them thick angelic voices
soothing the karma
killer
the wild boy
the dense suburban
drunkard
verse roach
junky
executioner
Spain-tingled tramp
on the stoned
immortal
make
the ghost writer sighs again...

the ghost writer sighs - wishin' it's all been
one drunken winter back
one happy Sunday forward
& one Italian night later
on the 2AM show
where they sell you those pills
for your fat
or
psychosis

the ghost writer sighs
wishin' he had some good legs to wander
some ears to listen to her
sunken promises
dead surroundings
of dictionary mania
or some lips to meet on
the dirtiest laziest corner
& an arm to hold on to, golden...
to write even cheaper words
if only for her
amusement
& it's all a poor sitcom
& we're all kicked out
in the end

the ghost writer sighs
it's all just another year in the back