thy crotchola, in the dark

and misty wee hours:

curly rain,

and herb-lore,

and glad tidings,

and quieter meals.

i appraise the marshness of it,

my downy godhead.

 

my earth is miserably incomplete.

her earth is mars’s hell.

  

i don’t need to be right, i just need

to make a big deal out of rejection.

like metal scraping metal but with no sparks.

her flouncing, powerful asexual undertones.

i, the scantily clad one-trick-pony, squoze

the lower-bound silt into elegant tents,

into doable chunks.

 

-what a timeline to be alive-

 

my pain pushes until my vision pulls:

a truckstop toughguy 

although empty as a flute.

as a reaction or a choice,

a tactical demon.

 

gosh, what a jejune banger.

dealing only in marginal darlings,

and only fussily takes that nice-nice.

 

i’m young, i’m done.

together we might could junk it,

and salvage some sort of novelty from

this thick energy...

nah, only in cartoons.