Butterflies fly through her hair

Carrying letters from the sky

Pretty language let the stars compete



A young boy…

A young boy had just dove off the roof of his house, the moment I caught sight of two maple trees wrestling with each other in the orange mists of a teenage sneeze, in which their bed of flowers caught the boys fall, in the warm sheets prepared by the nurse disguised as this autumn breeze.

There were of course hallucinations played out in the mind while on September stilts!

© Matthew Goff

The Broken Angel of Slow Sex flight and Her Impossible Audience

The broken angel of slow sex flight

Walked up to the store with rock and roll in her heels

In front of drunk men

She belted out a few lines of a seventies classic

Her singing wild and dirty as her body

A crazy street person they would say

As she caringly petted the store owner’s dog

Looks of mild contempt were her thanks

And yet her love flowed

Some foreign heart untouched by ordinary ignorance

She stayed awhile and tried to make friends

Mostly ignored, except for the occasional glance one has towards a circus show

Performing and yet not performing

She lifted up her shirt for some reason to reveal her stomach

She had the free sexuality of a playful stripper

And then she spun out again in another direction

After awhile she left

With a genuine smile for everybody



The reason for her visit was unclear

But she was tagged a bum

And there was some relief that she was gone

How can a person’s apparent vocation cloud the stars they explode for you?

A slow firework blew by the store and is seen like the dirt under our shoes

Whereas we wear our boredom like a crown

And hold others to the same so-called normal criteria

We call her a bum

But envy the rebel ruby of her freedom


© Matthew Goff