thy crotchola in the dark
misty small hours:
curly rain
and herb-lore
and glad tidings
and quieter meals.
i appraise the marsh of it,
my sovereign.
my earth’s nullity, her earth’s mars’s hell.
i don’t need to be right, i just need
to make a big deal out of rejection.
like metal on metal but no sparks.
her flouncing powerful asexual untertones,
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 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 novelty from
this thick energy...
no, only in cartoons.
Graveyard of Jizzed-On Stuff