“yea, it kinda sucks that we have to be physical beings"
Walks back to the kitchen, sips from the faucet, gets her tongue dirty.
“You weren’t really listening, were you” I call back, then whisper to myself, “this bitch"
Regardless of whatever time it was, night or day, or quarter past or till,
I thought I was ready for dinner, because dinner means napping or showering or both,
and then partying. I like to party, but she didn’t unless her tummy had been tucked
for the evening or it was her birthday.
After running back home to pick her up
(i had left to take out some cash and buy an extra bottle)
we got into another big fight about how fucking slow she is
and how fucking impatient God can be when you forget
to capitalize his name.
She brought up the time I asked “can I borrow a pen for work, love"
and He responded by losing my favorite gold necklace the next week.
“what a Prick” I thought, but apologized and was forgiven. Again, I
don’t have anything to hide.
She swears I only want her for her looks, but I want us for our looks, and I think that’s quite enough
if I’m to be honest. I couldn’t give a damn whether or not she dresses like a cowboy for Christmas;
everyday we walk in the same pair of panties,
that’s a joke, but really, I wish my briefs were thicker.
I wonder if she cares,
sitting in the backseat,
if she cares how strong the pull on my elastic band is when she reaches her palm in.
Hello, love love love
death and everything in the middle is copping out of dealing with the substance, or, what do they call it, the journey, as opposed
to the final drop.
ballad, or essay on abstract
Eventually the swollen finger will no longer reach for the fire.
Fueled by vengeance, the ghastly fissure dwindles down into negligible bursts of grainy dust.
Open wide and gasp whole. Permanent thoughts
only last until something worse occurs; offsite,
underground, retaliation belongs to the democracy.
Happy, Winner? Wrestle with my torso, the possibility,
succumbing to my twisted tongue, believe me—
It tells lies, and runs across valleys, misdirected. Yes, it’s called
confusion— when I can’t
get a grip, tongue slips, teeth bruise, nails slit
and I’m the one left to blame for the sheet stains
“and yet, effortless in our broken charm, mutual and
unknowing,
like practicing script, far from camera, in the comfort
of your own discretion”
There’s that metaphor again, getting a rise out of—
Freaking Out, Honestly—
I’m tired of hiding, and hoping to find a little more
comfort in lying.
