Anthony In The White Clouds

Color my pictures,
Let me live out from your black and whites and tools that are limited, you can
bring me to life, unpetrified. I want to live as
blazing rain in lupine fields. Everyone I meet be manganese oxide.

Like Anthony in the white clouds,
Too young to depart,
Too pure for this world.
I choose to be remembered as I remember him,
with his scabs and swear words doused and dissolved
in purity of childlike soul.

Sky roses aren’t real.
You have to paint the petals blue.
Good in theory? Theory’s not enough. Make them real.

Are you vindictive like me? Open your palm. Give me two.
Here’s a coin to buy you another soda.
Next round’s with the cast and crew, abhorrently uncut
Like most film disasters do.

Everyone’s got their own words.
If mine make it to the dictio, then I’m good. I did well. I served right.
Lived right. Left right.
I see the door but I’m cozy in here, so maybe later. I love my mom. I really don’t wanna leave her.
But if she has to put me away with the other patients, she has my consent. Trust, full.

Take a picture of me. I’ve got an axe unground.
My bones, here, you see? They still manage
I click my fists and my knees, neck. Sounds only I can hear.
When they shatter, I want to world to break with them like Milanian opera, tunes,
Nuvole Bianche at my funeral and ‘member all the words I had left to say are in the notes,
Comet knows the way. Mad has the key.

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