: hush now, its going to be sleepless. my dreams lately have no direction, we just talk. monogamous over cocktails about his raised subject of typos in my app and how I don’t fix them. sober, diplomatic discussions with the cemetery’s most powder inventions in metal books.

 

the psychic) was correct sometimes her meaning is judgy, like : I just want someone to  fuck.

 

when he guessed my flower)     my under age sea malt fog)      her number of brother) how to best satisfy moaning, flash flood rosy cheeks.

 

or maybe breaking in evening lick bit from the waist.

 

[lost quiet

sleep in, late      coconut]

 

: how at least I know the mail works

 

hand wrote:

 

its safe to say the fabric is on sale

descended hems of hunted grass

 

[he’s the gun shooting fucking coffee shop he’s not even good enough to be hell]

 

dies in a painting constellating

pronouns

grown lucky in a wide valley        is milk based

bowels

 

[he’s the dirty water excremental poison on earth industrial agricultural and living thing waste]

 

the shins of the felt forest are lucent                      (pianists pant in the rain

 

virginity

seeps in cushions

next door to the dulcet lutes

used to laugh

 

[if science is beauty he’s a promise]

 

tomatillo tastes

seeds    pulse, the corded snow