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Present Present


All the lazy nuggets
surrounding your neck
Strung along at equal lengths
From A to B to C to D,
on that dainty rolo strand:
They’re black pearl teardrops
Replying to intruders.
Throwing shade,
in resemblance
of a stormy and metallic sea.
Swaying,
Along with mewls you can hear
During dinner
During bath time
During sleep
During dreaming
During coding
During smashing
During fucking.
During prayer.

Before long,
they'll be detaching,
as teeth customarily do.
Oh, hither:
a stamp of approval
For a depreciated,
edentulous bijoux,
And a disappearing shore.
The smoke machine is on.
Enjoying this danse lente
As never before...

Deleting the Sadistic Joys

I don’t want wine-label photos of your
“Tonight’s try outs”
I don’t want frilly, meaningless sh1t
Off the internet
No references
No ASCII Art
No crying at the opera.
No emails with diagrams.
No pinky rings with monograms.

No Valentine rose,
No photos of me
on your hard drive
spreading my legs in silky pantyhose.
No prose
No poetry
No Japanese tea.
No mornings with Italian pastry.

No more photos of me
With my sweatpants down
Lying on a rock at the top of a hill.
No white-chalky figurine
on the bedroom window sill.

No morning quail trill.
No older person to pick up the bill.
No new dress to impress.
This toad didn't princess.
it didn't have success
Unless- went as
a flirty drama artist
At the podiatrist:
Went there for a fractured toe
And turned into an Grindr hoe.

No Mini DV footage of us fucking.
No me-and-you cartoon-collage making.
No getting money from under the cat,
No fun-activity
carving mermaids and swans
out of Camay-Classic soap bars.

No mid watercolors with the likeness of me
No hearts made out of < and 3,
No riffs of shitty rock-and-roll.
No more loss of voice control.

No lying on my timeline.

                                  

This came undone in front of everyone

She took the man with beard,
cane and baby fat ankles
squeezing his last jovial breath,
guilt wrapping needless gifts
like tawdry lace
and ribbons of the world wide web
she lied about and said:
I had them custom-made for ground control
They have the name I never say on them,
Yours truly - the one and only gifter.
Left behind for others to ingest
a clump of colored something
Like an infernal toddler
or maybe you, a hand-me-down sweater.
I tried to mend its holes and missing sectors,
And hurt my fingers in sharp sewing needles.
My skin got scratched
by all its rough and ornate edges.
It didn’t fit me well at all and crushed my guts
then bones,
then my affection:
too macho for a figurine!
too fake a language for girls on the internet
too cool for winter and for school.
too mid.
too pseudo.
too stubbly for oral.
too far from real roses.






We Know, we know

She's been erasing herself
To fall out of trouble.
Now we are both really sick
Of the same 1, iniquitous
same 1 dross,
-made of wheat beards
from the summer’s end.
Same 1, who called us cunts
and stole apologies for temporary peace.
We’ve turned and tossed,
Each in our own chambers:
Mine faces North,
Hers faces her discovery of God.
We kneaded its heart,
(Of) partly doo-doo clay,
And partly false consistency.
We squeezed it through where Our fingers met Our palms,
produced some coarse
and loutish-pink compression
of rough, wool-sweater facts and figures.
In unison,
We gave it to the common moths;
They turned it into grated sand,
To be stepped on incessantly and outside time,
Beyond when our bones turn dusty under memorial tablets.
To be carried on by soles of dirty shoes
To spare the irritation of our cunts -
- Cunt is your anger word, not mine.










                                                                                  


                                                                                                                                                                                                            



It's someone from the internet
So crush
So fun
We say hello
Through electronic text


Loving gestures:
A meme in place of deli roses


I have
Never had
Such a trained animal.
Looking at me
From an oblique position
After stepping in a muddy
Puddle


To the Wind:
You dirty, sooty, sweeping broom

To the Fog:
Lift up your skirt and shelter me.
Veil me from the valley monster.











my heart is a dark, warm bread