joe vaughan

• 2012-02-17 5 notes

  i dreamt up a city of kids

  hatched in the fiesta of assassins,

  rattled as orphans

  by ghosts with glazed futures,

  left with white leaves to fill, to shy

  out a few dry years on

  before turning to

  spirits or spiders

  or dust.

  reading books on mexico, they dreamt

  of mexico

  and couldnt,

  and they wanted ‘love’

  and couldnt.

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