you, looker. my newest.

i say these all at once.

i want you to hear

what i deem to be miraculous

and see what i know

to be a starry encompassed cupola.

i want you to take these pills with me

and we’ll pillowfight to the demise.

​

you haven’t had enough shitty shiraz yet

to actually want to talk to these people.

let’s get outta here, please.

we don’t know each other very well

but listen, uh, you,

i will tug your arm

right here in front of all these stale gallery whores.

 

mine this time, your world isn’t so empty. you might even for a brief moment think that your life choices

have actually been helpful to you.

despite your drunk fuck ups,

and maybe a legacy in

your name starts with you,

and that generations to

come will respect you,

if they don’t turn out to be shitheels.

but for like nine and a half minutes

you’re my, you’re my mine,

mine mine mine you scurry off now ok?

 

in my belfry

dripping softer wood.

dripping even burnt on gravy,

comforts untold:

​

um, so, palmfuls of goldfish crackers.

and that nook behind the armchair.

and calling girl teachers ‘mom’.

and really short extension cords.

and lots and lotsa moss.

and critical salsa.

and the perfect MK Fatality.

and big cringing makes the

women squiggle.

 

privacy is an amazing time.