Ufo's Part 3 Poem by chris bowen

little devil.another level of symbolism in a prison of art and not fire, but disease and a little higher than earth.scream for all im worth, the teeth hurt.my mercury is purring and i am slurring words.the disease is a plenty, motor grind to any.they send me a cake occassionally and say they remember me fondly.on golden pond not be me, i got to see an alien or three.be.still your heart.love aint charts no more.remember me? three or four.the lore is torn by born men of another, and they discover a lover.smother the attempt.a pimp walk to a crone of a drone.my lover moans and the sewn sheets of my bed now blood red.jupiter is the cupid, fire an arrow at stupid.little blind men, a language not to understand.little hands of range, a man from planet dainge or whatever.never go, the rain is slow and they remove vertigo.par for the course is giving love to a blind man.love i cant understand or accept.i remember they're steps.

a true story
chris bowen