Follow me
Into history.
The roses are really not red
The violets are really not blue
A poet
A circus lion
A virus in splendor.

The minutes have fastened
the crest of shadows grow seconds
These indigo trails slow down
And the sun flowers
Grow lower
and the bright lights
call em’ ghosts
and we
in tow
In undertow
Still a bunch of bullshit
That I don’t want to hear
Or to see its stolen voice
Bony fingers
Shrill voices
Brilliant mania
Showering brilliant
Scouring sadness
Burning the heat
Burnings fingers on the burner
Boiling water
Loves the waterfall
The wonderful sound of


Jason Wright is the founder and Editor of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.