Sex with wolves. My ex is from Bruges. I’m a xylophone,
waiting for a dial tone. I break the rules. I date a xenophobe,
messed up on hemoglobin and bowls of Xanax and panic.
We’re both dust creatures seeking symptoms of stimuli,
and a nice lullaby. I’m the fall guy, blue neon, tall guy.
Bringing snow chains to the party, we’re lost in the Mardi Gras
foi gras, grass skirt, fashionable undershirt of a world gone bezerk.
I’m a lasting impression in a glass jar, flamaldehyde heart. Testoserone
dart at the lovely part in your hair, where the blonde and the blonde
and the blonde go blind.
Look inside me but not enough to make you queasy.
Roller skating blues singer without a band.
I’m an emergency lane clogged with Daquiri. Apathy is a hat for me.
I’m a latch key masterpiece with razor sharp faculties. But a little cold
at 35 degrees. I’m a parka in the Keys, more heel than Achilles. Call me silly,
but don’t text me. I’m restless and sexy. Do me a favor and murder
my tendencies, a little bit underneath the sink, please.
I reach my peak and then…
Fountain pen. Mountain men. Counting Yen.
Do me a favor and knock again. I’m a repeating non-pattern,
second ring of Saturn. Holy smokes, you weren’t joking,
that’s some ego you’re toking. Awoken like Tolkien.
I’m a garage door and a lot more. Figurative pie in the sky.
This is the most beautiful place I can think of to die.
Dancing in delirium, dining on venison.
I dedicate this
to the waitress
who brought my drink
and gave a kiss
I’m going to keep loving you
until we both Cinnamon Toast Crunch