which way is up and does it matter?
we know which way is down, baby.
(this is the point where i light my cigarette)
interspersed, betwixt and atypical
define me
better.
she wrote the poem in lipstick,
a drill -- a monument to plunder --
on the mirror, on an envelope,
on my heart.
i want to Thelma her,
i want to Velma her,
stains all over everything:
"why am i sticky?"
and i've spent all night grinding my teeth to figure it out.
all i need to do is move my fingers enough to reach.
displacing dirt and grasping the shovel.
scared to fucking death of loving.
or ever being loved.
being touched.
i dig it out.
i dig.
No comments:
Post a Comment