out
the grime, much filth, personalities borderline. mad ass souls. mad ass eyes.
mad ass thoughts. copped an Impala, wrecked a Caprice, rolling an old filthy ass
Fleetwood. many were bagging bricks, a room filled with product, a
little shocked by the clientele. a furnace on low, a cheetah chained by the
pool. it wasn’t my life, just stumbled in, had good sense to get ghosted. bacon
frying, eggs waiting, mad ass situations. Love 5’9”, 91cm, breasts perfect as
sunshine. a small chitzsu, a doggy biscuit, it keeps barking, snapping, as mean
as its master. (there comes a line more questions: what have we to give? why
should one adore us?) a minor inquiry, on a late night, testing, teasing, trying
to treasure one in another league. like damn. walking the
garden. many talk dungeons until faced with opportunity. keep it moving, keep
it mobile, or face inner dissonance. looking like love, acting like love, all routine
signs of love. Bugatti turmoil—doing like 70mph, increased to 100. just
watching a channel, just listening in silence, just said it was time to go.
tell us about music the fire in the
dungeon the ache in the guitar.
tell us about love how to measure
trueness tell us violins.
I
giggle at some real pain—touching an amazon—realizing it's better not change: the
gold the boldness the flame the crime.
I watched as she brushed her hair, seeming
a thousand strokes, looked closer, asked for authenticity, broke up.
got ghosted. hit the hills. one
petite, nice, grounded, lost everything.
out the grime, much filth,
personalities borderline.
mother
told me about denims: “You should feel good, in nothing but, & a nice
shirt.” I watch our women, they overwhelm us, they never quite realize it—while
knowing affectation.
last in thought, first priority, like
Happy New Year’s. many never see, read it closely, it says every damn thing.
