Miraflores

My fantasy crossed the ocean, to a park full of dead Kennedys

Slept at the flying dogs, I sneaked in you said

Alone in the smog I drank the leaves, ball was rolling

Upon my middle finger, spices

Burnt my mouth, and I cried

All I could eat was my own soul

Extended skulls were lying in the sand

From the land I couldn't see the lines

A cloud of flying rats covering the sky, as I cleaned what they left behind

Up to the Inca mountains I met myself, headaches spraying shit everywhere