won't you find your shirt
underneath me? but
that would be sick you say
with all your charm. I'm
not ready to drool over
the other ladies
crawling around on my
bed and bedroom floor.
We communicate with
little motions in our toes.
The darling freddie dolls
don't will your way away
from me. The show stole
the rolling serif's, the mother's
children flock to chain
links, inside them they
blow heads off. You're
not right to question this.
This is not your other
kind of living. Eliot
thought we all were
thoughtless. Masochist.
Racist. Drew bater,
barry more than you
she's not a whore. Little
highschool crushes. I'm
big, wearing jeans. Flexing
cold fingers in my nose.
You don't believe me.
I'm not assinine. The
moot point is the crime.
The Filter echoes your
relationship with the
Air. The dirt. Hold on
to your resumes. Don't
arrange the night like
entropy would have you
do. Do it with angst and
empty water cups. You
want it to become flippant
like little wicked christians. The
motivation is for your mind
to mimick failing resonation.
The motivation is iron
formerly yours. The dissarray
of the US flag, the gettysburg's
famous daughter. The cleavage
you imagine. Caskets loaded
with leather jackets. Italian
corrosion. Misinterpretation
of alabama accents. Insensitive
fleece. Wool. Ste(a)(el). Omaha.
Nebraskilite. Walter Cronkite. Your
mother's rocking chair. Blinded by
absynthe and lust. You never noticed
I changed. You walk with synthesized
emotion. A perfect bloated bounce
beneath your step. Neither four
fingered cartoon character knew
what I was feeling. Don't fall
off me. Turn the evening
into wine. I might still
believe in simple things
like lips and red games, you won't
find your shirt underneath
me.
