i'm a painter, poet, and part time philosopher . white jeans and iron dreams
the fire ball sun came down heavy,
on the summer shadow shopping bag faces,
of tin can alleys,
and silicone sally's,
who's fingers work overtime,
to make sure that the brass lined,
temptation row,
of high crime,
rythem and rhyme,
can stand the test of one more time,
your white jeans looked like magic,
standing in front of a 1999,
plastic and metal dream,
whos skeleton hull
now lies at rest,
a forgotten memory,
on the banks of 99th and west,
think tank tommys, rombo ronnies, and micro wave mommies,
slide fast past,
the mad poet,
that sleeps in the gutter,
and tells his tale,
to the microchip heros,
and silver spoon zeros,
that drive another nail into a fadding saturdays nights din,
and you find yourself on your knees in the light of the broken neon beams, as you watch her sashay,
off into the night,
of white jeans and iron dreams
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