suitcase in my hand
waiting for autumn
the humdrum of the human wire
trying to find some heart...
I'd like to find a way
the get inside the crackle
of the stereo and find
a note inside sweet jane...
An Artist, always dreaming
looking at the moon
and screaming or singing
questioning the sky...
Is there a place for the willful,
the forgetten sailors and lovers,
foregone erotic attractions,
the remains of a lost age?
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