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 star-lit open dome.

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.

 

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 twenty and a half minutes

you’re my, you’re my mine,

mine mine mine -  you scurry off now,

OK love?

 

in my belfry

dripping soft wood.

cleaning 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

womenfolk squiggle.

 

privacy is an amazing time.