Note fetish massacre

At least they aren’t green.
My Russian brother eats that color on Holiday mornings.
If his name is Ivan, he is electric.
An architect once told me, “It’s not about building.”
My mother once told me, “it’s all about sex.”
We’re here now, it must be
If only we knew where to go next…
I hate it when I get pen against my pinkie.
Like when it slips? When I use pen I always end up with marks on my hand.
An ode to the umbra, or the satellites that pierce us. You and I. Thirty lines become an epic. Inhaled behind shelter and confidence. Oh confidant, so electric, among the eclectic parades that leave me under your influence. Down there where the tractor hum sounds like honey and I’d like to keep you near to heart. I fear for us, but rush in. I only aspire to give and take. And I’ll supply you enough diet coke to make our dreams true. Much love to be returned, NAME.
SERVE THE BEEF
YER BREAKIN UP THE BAND, YOKO
MUCH LOVE.
We’ll be named The Beefs
But the question is how will one make them?
I haven’t said “I love you” in days. I haven’t kissed him in days, but today he made me. On the cheek. Took two minutes but I did. He stares a lot. At girls. I helped Azn open his locker. He talks odd and quiet because he is from Louisiana.
Talk about meter. See spot. See spot run. Which one? Impartial. Fill in the blanks.
Birds has potential while strolling down an industrial lane. I make sycophant studies bow down to me, their skeletons like loud crickets in the blades. An atmosphere so parallel and against the black and white – we kick the cat out, and go back to plastic swing and in-between moon turn. Unlike 360º. Tell me more.
I’d love to again and again. About and about. You make me weak at the knees spinning behind us. To be so, eclectic would be a dream. It would be intensity. To swing and turn together, last night I had a dream.
I imagine lightly detailed paragraphs mingling with cinnamon cymbals, and our flawed perfect stance would shimmer like raisins under sickly sweet processing plant. I’d eat your hair if you didn’t mind.
This I would love, as I am under the influence of your words and undue spirits. I want our hair to intertwine as I turn to you for inebriation. Skin to be glass. Tongues of gold. We’re chained. You and I, to stain white rooms, and it will be more like a song.
And I’ll mow lawns for minimum wage to pay for visits to Dimebox, our movies unfolding poetically, where rooms are no more but glossy centerfolds, where your mother is correct, where snow is a bodily fluid and a petticoat… is a satisfied lap.
Where we’d sleep through the winter on black sheets, and we’d never take photographs cause we know what we’ve done and where we’ve been, and on the docks I’d work the night shift so the mornings were ours, and we’d never sleep, but I’d wake up to a morning star. And the sun. And I’d write my sad poems about someone far away, but with the money I’d make I’ll cover you. We’ll buy a boat and learn to fight the sea to an island in the sun, where the crabs eat men, there…
Odd shapes out of simple lineage – speechless speech teachers, lost voice drunk on turpentine – canvas letters cause all the paper is used and we’d rather paint tonight anyway.
Here is where I make my day from paper, as “Gypsy Death & You” never stops. Never stops. Last night, in my dream we held hands in a white corridor, lit by the wall’s hue, we came to a white room and sat. There, we stared out a wall, which was a window. Beyond it a blue sky and the sun. That was all. And I woke with a smile, restless. Tell me more. Tell me straight.
My words are lacking, they are foreign and tasteless and nonexistent noms. I’d like to pursue walls.




What music do you listen to?
Do you like politics?
Who are you going to vote for president?
One of the wolves’ sisters. Ah, crap.
You’re about to waste a minute of your time.
Beep means yell!
She and the Jews
PETTICATZ+++++++++11oneexclamationpoint!2twototootout