I was going to write a poem
about a boy
& a girl
but I got quite *******
this evening
& I'm feeling quite proud
of my curls

I dashed away a bit of
***
& thought
I'd rather have tequila
he touched my
hips
& his tongue slipped
"well, I'd rather
be your
dealer"

then deal me down
& send me
to the sharks
for I've lost my taste
in winning
I'll lick your sweet
disdain
whenever the rain
comes so you'll
know


*its only the beginning

you live to chase
s
        t
               o
          r
     m
s





I live to chase                              
                                             y
                                                     o
                                                               u.

constrained and
deranged
he caught me in
a flame
of golden, righteous
perception

he paid me
twenty bucks
& I read his palms
like a sad, sad
story
while I sipped on
my wine

I could see his mouth
ever so clearly
with its own longing
to read my own
future
in the contours of my
wrists

so I told him he was
going to die
alone
& he still returned
the next week

when I told him he'd be hit
by a truck
he only laughed
& left me blue roses

the week after that
I had a cold
& refused to read
so he bought me a
bottle
& read the back of my
neck
& I was tired enough
to let him

he was prettier
than a summer storm

a FedEx truck ran over him
the next day

I held his roses until
my hands bled
& no one could ever
read me again

shame
shame on you, visceral decree
second sight's corrupted
now you're the same as me
crave
crave you 'til the very end
come love
& join the falter
a tribute to the dead

the cost is blood
sullied calamity
once a humble servant
twice as much
for greed

martyr
save your breath
& let's begin
I'll give the grace
to guard you
while I live under
your skin
bewitched as I
you have sealed me to
my grave
oh, our reckoning's
still coming through
in waves

oh, to want you
is all that I do

take it all under skin
& burn it all away

to want you
is my hell
too

just gonna have me

a

good old fashioned





heart attack

here she is
running on hard-boiled
fear
coupled with passive
adrenaline
bubbling underneath the
surface

they're playing the
final round
& he hasn't got a
clue
for the moment when she
very well should have
erupted
in a fit of fed up
pent up anguish
she kept quiet
as the dead
& began to plot
the great
escape

she put herself on
the high wire
with nothing but the
clothes on her back
a fifth of tequila at her hip
& a knife in her teeth

"we're gonna make it
out of this hell
one way
or
another"
she said as she was
more than 500 feet
from jagged
glass encrusted death
in a river of
uncertainty
& last minute decisions
that all seem to
revolve
around the full
acknowledgment of
the fact
that's he's a no good
two-timing
holier-than-thou ****



dear jesus



I hope it isn't windy
tomorrow

it feels like I'm

ten microwave seconds

from

spontaneous combustion