Yellow door. Kick it with your foot.
With all the dope and scope stumps.
Shatter it to dust for good.
This is the door of last year’s systems.
This is a door, not a chrysanthemum garden.
This is the hideout of the dead bohemians.
They’re dead, they don’t have erythema.
If you don’t break it, it won’t fall off on its own.
Do it once and for all, forever.
To show myself and everyone.
My voice calls to you, not to everyone.

I kiss you from behind, drunk, half drunk, so strange.
Not on-screen and a little nasty in the back, foreign.
In a hundred by hundred square, on a lined notebook,
on my poster of you and muscles at sunset.
A little bit of poison, poison and honey, honey.
Instead of chocolate, you are my armada;
instead of snowfall, I kissed scarlet.