Dreams, F#cker!

There’re nights my dreams would drive us there,  
Where roar of Ocean cars collide  
With children’s roller-coaster screams,  
Actresses and burn-out bums.  
 
Manhattan's long beach boulevard,  
Then Cal 1 north, Sepulveda,  
Past L.A.X. on Lincoln’s run  
Saint Monica with arms thrown wide.  
 
And you are there, my rider ghost,  
As Jim profanes that woman’s love.  
Your flesh ignites my fingertips,  
The truths they write on suntanned thigh.  
 
Your cotton bless, my hands reside,  
To park in side street neighborhoods,  
And hide in swells of summer skirt,  
The seated rush of want's resolve.  
 
Your kisses burn as, face to face,  
We seek that death that kills us both,  
Where only ghosts and dreams remain.  
 
As day again invades my night,  
As winter steals my summer place,  
As, like the dawn, I rise alone.