yeah, they cut out my third ****** from my shoulder blade and i turned into a bond girl; oh god, you're not one of those bulletproof people confused about love like a nurse confused by a disease? you are? oh god help me... you'll go far! straight to daddy's pocket purse and saturday night... you'll throw stilettos at chandeliers and expect a catwalk blackout... god forbid that should happen with everyone biting their toenails.*
between us we share the bathroom and the bedroom, we sit on the stilt framing see-through of it admirably airy and welcoming stars: wishing for foxes and women respectively, all you can hear is a meow... meow... meow... meow meow... moo... µ... meow... meow interchange between these two rooms in the garden air, it’s like a fetish orchestra giving ‘prior to sleep’ crescendos, and it makes sense to write a forgivable poem of this least content, content with the least as me writing it; well d'uh, of course i had to write it, i wasn't going to stage a boxing match with stella artois losing care for words and taking care of action, i was going to mediate the page like a kite being passed on with paddington bear's secret inscriptions to get from london to sydney; i hope it worked. the drunkard? oh... he's either silent, crying, laughing, or simply reading.