I like you.
I’d like to keep you,
In a little box and blow smoke over you.
Hold you in my arms,
So you can’t move around freely.
I want to look deep into your eyes
And assume horrible things about your character
To everything I say.
Because I like you so much
I can’t help but smother you;
In kisses, in grudges, in rules.
Call me some very specific time.
I want to be thrown-
def dumb and blind into your arms
So I can feel
what you really have to say.
It's only when I close my eyes and drowned out the words inside my head
that I see-
the way I am and who I really want to be
A drop in the ocean
A needle in a haystack
we are searching
A feather in your cap
I adorn you with my attributes.
A trinket you collect
to be posted on your wall.
I want to be tossed
with your other castaways.
It's only when I crash into the median
really get to see,
really get to be
truly, have to be.
A drop in the ocean
A needle in a haystack
we are searching
A feather in your cap;
I adorn you with my attributes.
A trinket you collect
to be posted on your wall.
Every time it happens she can feel it breaking off,
branching out and reforming.
Every time she utters a word,
she is walking down a new path constructed a millisecond before she steps.
She is choosing her realities with no particular discrimination.
It isn't that she wafts through the wind without care,
it is that she calculatedly assembles her existence but fails at being an active member in it's design.
She could be,
though in doing so she would doom herself to a path of bland ever-constant introspection and would have to forgo living life altogether.
A billion or so versions of her move in unison so perfectly that even the most scrupulous judge would not find fault in her chorus lines.
However there is always something amiss,
even if it be nothing more than a hair they are all separate and un-touching.
Which of these 'perfect' copies is the 'real' one is an utter mystery.
I think it is safe to say that they are all the 'real' ones,
what is important here is the particular one.
There are trillions of paths that hold her,
but not quite the her that we are speaking of now;
not the her that moves her pencil to the left in such a way as to create a stray mark on the paper;
not the her that wrote this.
I watched it run out,
like a recording where the film just flips,
over and over again.
The dull empty clicking of a machine without purpose,
and white empty all-filling space.
Broken boys make broken girls
who break the pavement down the road.
And all who follow best beware to tread quite lightly, tread with care.
Because broken girls make broken men,
who fall head first and break their shins.
With broken bones and broken hearts
and broken pathways from the start.
Look at her,
she's remembering when she was native,
when she was Spain,
when she was Mexico
There she is now,
fondly thinking of her future;
the one where she falls into the sea.
Everyone is up to their knees in **** talk,
They all word ***** in mass.
So I sit back and I watch them eat each other,
whilst falling over themselves.
It's something akin to the end of days.
Revelations revealed in all it's gory details.
I'm just waiting for the ravens to pluck out their eyes.
It's ravenous and disgusting the way they drool at the scent of blood.
It sickens me the way they tear at their own flesh.
They're so consumed with blood-lust and so attached to their own need to feed that they lost track of where their skin ends and their prey's begins.
Pick a cause, any cause, and slap your receipt on your bumper.
Everyone is doing it.
Everyone needs something to be passionate about.
What's your disease?
Not a one of us has it but **** if we don't act like it.
Walk it off.
Blame federal taxes.
Blame the government.
Why not your cause?
Why not your ailment?
***' you know Johnny is going to die if we don't do something,
and Susie's just runnin' outta time.
Buy a teddy bear to show you give a ****.
Donate that extra quarter.
It all piles up somewhere.
But who, I mean who ever bothered to cure anything?
A million lab coats are workin' on your answer.
Just give em' a sec,
this stuff takes time.
In the mean time throw another buck in like your the only one.
Like this is the only problem left.
Like Santa only cares about breast cancer
or the church only cares about Alzheimers.
It's got one of their own you know.
Uncle Jim's got cancer of the liver,
where's his save the children fund?
Timmy's got cerebral palsy.
Sara's got Aspergers.
Randy has the Typhoid.
Pick a brand any brand and show you give a ****.
Like the only one who gives a **** about the only thing that matters.
Forget them, what about me?
What about my issue?
What about my family?
Does the take a penny leave a penny in the seven eleven make you feel important?
Look here, buy this pin. 10% goes to Katrina victims
write big letters on big pages,
filled in magazines.
we make the summers
look like golden lit kerosene
and trail in conduct laden rows
off to our cozy little homes
where we make life a little rougher
for the souls that came before
such a silly little episode
she left her coat,
and we all grabbed it
and held it fairly close
until she finally stumbled up
all the stairs that we drew up
all those cozy little homes.
say that you remember,
late autumn or early winter,
when the changes weren't much
Say that you recall that fading fall
when we thought that we are all
the happiest we'd ever be.
Everything's closed down.
It's like I could feel the 7-11's halogen lights flickering off and everybody shut the **** up for long enough for me to feel the silence.
For once, it was as if somebody gave respect for all the dead in all the countries at all times for all reasons.
You didn't have to be well known or do anything exceptional
you were counted, even though you weren't conscious to revel in it.
I think when I die I'll be my own moment of silence.
If I was to write home
I'd have to tell them I died under a horse I beat far beyond death.
I'd have to tell them that I caught a disease from breathing in the atmosphere here.
I'd have to tell them I fell into depression on a milk farm out west.
I'd have to lie, I'd have to lie a lot is what I'm saying.
I'm flesh again.
Ripped out of the heavens.
Snatched up by something turning me from a metaphoric whisper,
to a tree stump.
I enjoyed being ethereal again after so long.
I've been metamorphosed;
repressively manufactured as the recipient of love;
been made 'real' again.
Soon I'll dilute,
become irritable and complacent.
The death of the mercurial.
My deepest darkest fears of happiness.
She's wiggling her fingers in her throat.
Got something caught back there;
some words she spoke.
But I'm not sure I want her to bring them back up
So I let her choke on them.
It’s come ‘round again;
Reared its self to meet me.
Staring me down like a gazelle.
What I wouldn’t give for one more cup of tea,
One more glance to the left or right depending.
One more sinister smirk at another's expense to be wafted forward
With some sad regress or another in response.
Not when it was getting all intense and fearless.
Don’t cut me off,
Give me another ounce of this.
Whatever this is.
I won’t ask questions,
I won’t move.
I’ll partake in silence.
Just give it to me for an evening more.
But there it is in front of me,
Bearing down on me,
Leaning into me,
I want to kiss you right on the mouth and tell you lovely things about yourself,
Just so you might deny me,
Just so you might say ‘no thank you darling I just changed’.
Just so that you might be the man in this situation that we have going on here.
This little awkward dance we seem to be doing between commitments and running.
How empowering would it be for you if I were to say ‘I like you more’
So that you might respectfully decline it.
I would like to give you that as a gift,
an offering to turn down.
She looks at you,
feathers still protruding from her mouth.
She's handing you a ticket to her way of thinking.
If you take it, you're in.
You have access to her mind;
Just renounce your humanity.
She's looking for a partner,
another wolf to connect with.
Be it for her.
She looks at you teasingly.
Be one of her,
and she will give you everything.
She wants to dine with you on the flesh of the living.
She wants you to play with her.
She looks at you,
feathers still protruding from her mouth.
And then you say, "All we are is dust in the wind."
enumerable and miniscule,
grains of the infinitesimal,
fading dreams of nothing.
Well, I say "Thank God, I love the prospect,
there is freedom in being nothing."
Why are you so displeased with this conclusion?
Is it that the contention you wrought is dispersed by my contentment?
We'll let it drift then on the wings of some updraft on it's way to God.
invisible to the naked eye,
just as you and I shall drift thoughtlessly into the atmosphere.
Little particles of dust fading into nothing and immeasurably free.
Sometimes you wake up and your plans for the week have burned down.
You find the owners of the buildings got into a fistfight,
blaming each other for its destruction and were arrested.
I guess that means we can check it off the list of things to say goodbye to.
Time to renegotiate and go for something like that hole in the wall pizza joint with all the awards on the wall.
Time to kayak on the only part of the LA River that isn't concrete.
I've payed my dues, so to speak, when it comes to being in your gestures and your manners and your rigid forms.
Now I believe is a time for movement,
Since you have no sense of these terms,
I will ask you to pay full attention as I define them for you
in no uncertain language.
Movement is the outstretched arm towards another,
the subtle nuances of fingers upon hand,
the tiny twitches of a toe in beat also cleave themselves to this definition.
Adjustment is the shift between lines that adds to the complexity of a speech.
It is the new extra last minute bits of imagination introduced to a new dish,
or a conversation,
or in your case an institution.
Freedom, though it be plastered on every hall and shouted in the name of horrendous injustice,
is not what you have perceived it as.
You seem to be tricked by the simplicity of the word and have such lost its meaning.
Freedom is the gift that we are given by having the mind to interpret the sickness of this most insidious crime against humanity,
this marring of creativity,
this block of nonsense-
we receive via what you like to call 'Education'.
Sometimes I go visit the end of the railroad.
I sit down on the tracks,
drink wine and think back to the time when I had somewhere I had to be,
It ends in a wall about seven feet tall that's been newly painted by some hooligan I cherished.
When I first wound up there I didn't know what I was supposed to do.
I tried climbing that wall for a few hours or days,
trying to go further than I needed to be.
But I never did like the destination bit anyway.
So I wandered off and found some new uncharted way to be for a time.
Every now and again I get the urge to reminisce.
I trot on back to the place and remind myself of the bliss
of knowing what the hell I was doing or where I was going.
I tag my name on a corner somewhere,
trudge down the tracks onto the parking lot,
hop in my car and go home.
I fear I've made a history of myself.
All the paperwork is blowing in the wind.
Don't look at all my personal transactions.
Don't look at the mess I've made of my short life.
I've thought twice about the whole lot of it.
I've made amendments to every one of my thoughts and I don't trade in them anymore.
I've made memories I wish expunged from the record of existence.
Stranger things occur to mock you darling in the subtle mornings of a rainbow's kiss.
I exist, only in this ever wanting,
I digress, into this mirror image of justification that we both missed on feelings outstretched.
Fading figments of ever-longing trepidation,
my love we are like the tears of the ocean;
over swept and baring no great elegance or depth.
Faster. Shall we traipse across the furrowed brows of our former keepers?
Or let lie the soft negligence of doubt?
Sinuous hopes, fears and phantoms play about the skirt of this magnificent oak that bares down upon us.
What of it's age and wisdom will it bestow upon our humble countenance?
Far be it me to describe such forbidden things.
That's what they say when they identify you by your teeth. When they can't make out any of your features from any of your photos. Your voice is changed and your legs are weak and unproductive.
'Omm neon zebra' she says,
'on beyond' is what it is.
Push those fingers in your mouth
I'm so frustrated in the attempt to communicate.
To rip through the ceiling and stab out towards the darkness.
No words.. but sounds,
terribly dangerous sounds.
No one knows your name
and it never really mattered just the same.
She broke the bottle over our heads
and the milk mingled with the blood.
That's how one feeds monsters.
The fingernails dig in deep and pull out threads of fabric.
It might have held the world instead of bled, she said
But I can't toe the line of a killer.
I'm laying in the ruins of my own new lifestyle.
Tipped over bottles of ***** aside,
I still feel okay.
I wonder if the world's crusted over pedestals still condescend to me
or if I have gone beyond their gaze.
There are little plastic fairy tales dancing around in my head like tipsy gumdrops.
What wonders shall spring from this:
(the new day,
the old day,
the ever increasingly frequented day)
except hangovers and light thoughts about how I'm handling this well,
I'm handling this extremely well.
I still feel okay as long as there is 80 proof to wake up to.
If blood came solely from my chapped lips and the spit that issued from them,
maybe you'd know I meant it.
The force that only comes from the letter 'f' flung forth with great ferocity.
The fear induced by a sudden change in the airs humidity.
The fever that comes from fire stoked in between my four burning lids.
Pardon me for feeling such things,
for facing the truth that is the sham of these past few days.
"Forever my *** you fake *******, clean your face and *******."
The last time I saw you,
was the last time we spoke;
and the two words I said to you,
got caught in my throat.
So I'm writing you a letter
and I hope you get it safe.
Because the words that I write here
are written on my face.
creative commons (look it half-rhymes and everything!)
If someone's going to write me a novel I think we should title it 'Girl Crashes Into Windshield'
Then everyone would be intrigued by the violence of the whole thing.
Then maybe, also, you can use that old photo of me as a reference point.
With a dramatic asterisk next to it that says before.
That will get 'em going.
The first line would be something like, "Death is such an ugly word."
Then we could detail the effects of having your face smashed in at 70 miles per hour.
Make some remarks in scientific terms about trajectory and blunt force.
Get some of those good 'like an egg on a sidewalk' analogies too.
End it with 'had she only stepped into the street two seconds later'.
Now we're gettin' somewhere.
The whispers of bestseller start to breed in the aisles of Barnes and Nobles' everywhere.
Because everyone loves a good car crash.
When I was young my mother painted the ceiling with every color there was.
She made the falling stucco and sealant into clouds and rainbows and horses;
horses of blue and purple and green.
One time I left my room and stared all night at the stars,
they were so much more vivid.
You couldn't deny their presence,
they were like little beings coming straight toward you.
Didn't need to look up, you could stare straight forward out of the window and it's like they were looking at you too.
But cautious, they never came close enough for me to grab them and trap them in my hand like a rolli-polly.
There were fireflies that loved to gather like tiny self supporting oil lamps by the tree next to our house.
They would swim around me because they knew they were far too clever for me.
There were toadstools that I would kick out of principal and river rocks that were never smooth enough for the current hadn't the will.
Caves where the ivy would circle for no reason but to give me the best hiding place of all time.
We ate snow that one time, when it had snowed for the one time it would in 7 years.
There was a single stoplight in a square of one tiny block where I would get dizzy riding my bike.
Then the Crawfords would let me ride their horse.
That's where I got stung by a bee for the first time and I fell on the red dirt road and cried and cried.
One time a tornado almost swallowed me whole while my trailer baby-sitter wasn't looking.
I remember asking with all sincerity for the third time how to spell cat.
Lolly-pops adorned the daycare where I watched trolls singing Kokomo.
These are all the good things I can remember,
so I cherish them.
Check your back pockets.
Did you check them? Because I think you might have left your mind in there.
Since you can't find it anymore, I've learned its always a good thing to check your back pockets-
before you wash yourself out.
Because maybe then your mind will end up being banged against loose change, wrapped and unwrapped in receipts and gum wrappers.
Just like mine was.
Now my whole worlds been dyed pink with confusion that bleeds through that one red sock of a mind of mine.
Don't be silly.
Check those back pockets of yours.
You might find it befriending some lint in the left back pocket of some jeans left on the bathroom floor for the past week and a half.
Stuck there, having been kicked around by fumbling feet that ***** in the darkness at night;
Splashed with hot water and trampled on by moist feet fresh out of a scolding shower.
"It's not me!" she broke in, hands still shaking,
heart still trying to headbutt through her rib-cage.
"SHUT UP! I don't know you!", she screamed at the wall of her bedroom,
Making memories right then and there.
Born like stars in the darkness.
Dreams that let loose into the silence of the real world like breaking through glass.
Dreams to make the grown men weep in panic.
Dreams to drink an extra cup of coffee for,
on your way to work.
I wrote this during a week where I was having intense nightmares but working a full schedule plus overtime.
If you are going to be dramatic, be dramatic in some new way.
Because the way you are being now wafts the scent of that old worn out you.
The one from years ago,
pining and whining and all together unpleasantly reminiscent of my younger years.
Oh to be young,
but never to be that again.
Yet there you are somehow captured in time.
Trapped in amber forever so as to perpetually present the same shade of tortured.
The same DNA ****** out of your bones to recreate that 'brand new you' into infinitude.
You haven't evolved
and I'm afraid I haven't devolved enough for us to be on the same end of the food chain.
I would shame you and wag my finger in front of your face,
but I'll hold.
One doesn't go to a museum to bemoan history.
I wanted to see how far I had come and man were my boots made for walkin'.
I'm whistling you a tune to waft into.
Some say to walk with the wind on your heels.
I don't do that.
I crash forward with clunky, massive steps
shattering asphalt and charging onward like a directionless bull.
If anything, I barrel into you like a semi off a freeway.
You smile and say you never knew what hit you.
You fall backwards.
As I run towards, you cave in.
I'm pressing my lips against you with something akin to force.
(the desperation of the intoxicated)
I burrow into your chest trying to make a place to hide in.
You sigh and fall to pieces;
crumble into dust to lay in.
The bills you get from an ATM located in a Headshop called the Refinery in the Valley are not going to be the same that you cash out of your local Wells Fargo.
They've been used before.
You can almost imagine the staff feeding the all-cash green you give them back into the machine (once a day when things are slow).
These are just facts.
When you say you don't want a 3:1 you want a 3:0... They show you a 3:1 anyways.
You know, the marketing system has really changed.
I get a discount for bringing in two newcomers.
My coworker keeps saying we are buying 'drugs'.
I tell her 'it's not "drugs";
even before the legislation passed, all you needed to say is that you had cancer and they would drive away ashamed for asking'.
I tell the staff I want something that will get me through the day,
nothing too crazy and I don't want to fall asleep.
I end up with a 3:1 CBD hybrid again.
I pay my 101.00 for the hybrid and a bit of gummy 50/50 Sativa and indica hybrid 'for the road'.
I remind her we have a whole department dedicated to this **** now,
she should act more professional as she selects her joints.
My other coworker gets a salve because his joints have their own problems.
Just another day with the work-family.
I feel the urge to disappoint myself again.
Like conjuring up the dead.
There is a willfulness to open the box,
to play with the bones,
to say the words in the right order and make the right incantations.
I don't want to off myself.
I want to set to motion a series of events that spells out my own doom.
To be responsible for the end of my own world.
To set my own house on fire and warm myself, homeless, in the ashes caused by my own hands.
It's a sickness. An allure. Damage.
An unquenchable curiosity of what happens if I push the glass heirloom off the shelf.
No one is ever able to stop the teenagers from renting the beach house.
Let's get this horror show started.
I don't watch ****.
You're more likely to see me squirreling away pictures of elaborate bathtubs, in shame.
in the still of the night,
I look up well thought-out Murphy-beds and closets that disappear into secret home offices.
I keep a hidden stash of blackout poems
and lewd photos of street artistry around my neighborhood.
I savor notes my best friend gave me during middle school.
I walk a crooked walk down to the seedy underbelly of my past
and read feverishly all my past feelings and relive them to remember how vivid they once were.
just like ****,
in watching and re-watching and savoring all the same flavors
everything tastes like mud now.
You're spitting blood at me instead of words,
grasping onto clothing,
retching onto your knees,
I'm simply kicking the chair from underneath you,
you strung yourself up.
Consider it the lesson of your life,
and the end of it.
Happy Halloween weekend.
If I'm going to survive the night, I'm going to do it with grace.
No more head tilted slightly resting on ***** bar tables.
No more pirouettes into the sidewalk.
No more fingers ****** into the air as a universal sign for more.
Give me more than this.
If I'm going to survive the night, I'd like very much to do it with class.
No more slurred speech.
No more mangled sentences.
No more off-tune renditions of 'Under Pressure' while I try desperately to keep from falling under the table.
If I'm going to survive the night,
(though at this point it seems unlikely)
I will not tout my youth in front of older strangers,
waiving it in the air like a gun as if to say,
'Who wants any?'
If I survive the night, I will have survived it with my dignity.
That's why I'm so desperate to die.
I would drag your broken body from a heap of ruin and pull it close to mine.
I would sit with you while we watched the fireworks of the undoing light the sky.
I would weep with you the tears that came with every broken bone in your body.
And together we would wait.
Wait for that God neither one of us believed in.
To pick us up by the side of this pile of rubble,
we used to call the world we knew.
I've succumbed to the fact that I am not good.
That I am some sadistic crusher of dreams, fates, wonder.
I am thus, I do thusly.
I am a destroyer of dreams.
Of all those good things.
A crusher of moths.
Foaming at the mouth.
Drooling at the prospect of all at once.
The cake and the presence of cake.
You look at me.
Endearing in being so weak.
The conquering of the mountain of you.
I am the master here.
I win the game.
Pick a game.
Everywhere I go
I can get you.
Have gotten you.
Could drop you and get you again.
Could craft an army of You's.
The luck of being the shade that I'm looking at currently.
So finite a selection of people.
Raise your glass to that if anything.
Enjoy the ride while you're on it.
At least be conscious of it.
Set yourself apart in that way.
Impress me with your special qualities.
Make me notice you.
Don't lose my interest.
I grow bored.
I'm leaning on a stand for support of something or other,
he's putting the mic closer to the speakers;
It's a response to questions I was caught screaming towards the back wall,
only to hear them break at the far-end over the tops of 'them'.
Vibrations making my skin tremble,
of those whose lights shine brighter than mine do.
In this dark secluded resting place of weary alcoholics and cheap lays,
who am I trying to impress but the bartender who gives shoddy looks through ***** glasses.
She's squiggling on the floor and I doubt she even knows why,
but he can dig it.
Nobody gives a **** what's playing as long as they hear it.
So I have them hear it,
they have them feel it
and we go on like this for forty-five minutes.
but their drunk so that's not saying much.
This is all the fantasy I psych myself up for,
I'm so easily losing my mind
as if it wanted to leave me.
my mind wanders off.
drops to the floor unnoticed
and rolls under the couch
co-mingling with the change that fell out of my pants.
the glory days of forever ago,
we drug ourselves into thinking that this was a good idea.
but of course,
as luck would have it,
i slipped through the cracks in the gene-pool that would have called me an addict.
life is good and all is quiet on whatever front i'm at,
at the moment.
life swirls on.
and so does the dust in my eyes.
big surprise, i'm still here,
mumbling indecency after indecency.
sip after sip,
soothsayers make mention of my doom,
in bubbles and in glory.
The parts that switch on,
flicker and hum to hesitant life,
when you come walking through the room.
Reluctantly, I feel all of my emotions begin.
There is a clicking and whirring, a sputter and a cough
There is a squeal and a backfire.
I sound ugly but I'm still alive.
If she stands,
legs wide apart,
holding your broken soul in her hands.
Maybe she wants to grasp something greater than herself.
But what holding does is little,
and your fates are not suddenly transferred to those bones.
And if carpal tunnel should cause her to drop it,
or if her hands should simply grow tired of the weight and relax after some time,
where is the blame rested?
Whose hand do we place that in?
and in this ever exchange of weights and balancing acts,
when does anyone get to waive goodbye;
hands heavy with guilt and promise.
let me be the first to say
if this was "a good run",
i'd hate to think what a marathon with you would be like.
if i had to venture a guess
somebody would lose miserably.
not that i'm trying to boast,
but let's just say,
in "the long run",
i go the distance.
you huff and puff somewhere behind me,
gasping for air,
trying to mouth the word 'water'.
while people place little shiny pieces of metal on my chest.
Cry me a river.
Douse me in the irony of conflict.
I'm just a rock on the edge of it,
sitting patiently for your sigh.
We both sit idly by, tensed for the precious birth of words in silence. Trust the ever-living body of guilt that is boiling over the edges of my self-concept.
Don't speak to me as if I'm some dignitary for justice, but simply as if I might irk out some monochrome of truth whilst I sip my coffee in exasperation.
Irritation is also intoxication might I remind,
so I'm fumbling and tripping over my own flawed reasoning.
I got to this point somehow,
so let us examine it rationally and see why I drowned in the liquor of my own rhetoric.
Or, we can sit tentatively vacant waiting for some resolution to spring from the ether that is the growing chasm between us.
confined to your own head, you might as well be a steam engine.
burning little holes in your turncoat.
making new friends in old dens.
barking at intruders like a dog.
what caused her, so many times,
to remove herself from the same line of thinking?
the man with the cocktails doesn't know,
but he knows the solution.
the solution to all life's problems,
to be imbibed and controlled.
the embrace for the embittered.
the fuel for the fire.
the stoke for the engine
the energy to keep chugging along at a good clip.
Somehow I know you're not worried.
Because I'm busy enough to be filled up to the brim with socialite;
a veritable butterfly of connections.
Like little electric currents that I watch late at night when I asked for rain.
It's delicate though.
I'm watching it run-through
like tape in an old movie house;
Us on the big screen.
(one single tear runs down her face)
'Perfect shot... but this time look into the camera'
I counted the droplets on my windshield last night,
talking about being ethereal,
being someone's 'one'.
Having that simple girl call me a drunk,
watching Independence Day,
thinking about being '******' for life.
Every fifteen minutes I'm wondering if she's okay
and those that don't deserve worry are still calling me to fix them.
I've got the band-aid for everyone else's 'uh-ohs'.
Watching the Olympics,
thinking about death, then you, then death again.
Avenge me darling.
****** up lullabies,
and perfect vision,
cutting ties and *****.
Going it alone, without the team atmosphere *****.
We're so good at it, it's a shame.
Any week but this one.
But here is the run-through
so it's almost like you're there.
You are fading jeans again
Try ripping them to shreds by skinning your knees
Try to squeeze blood out of stone-wash
You just crumple and fall on me love
Tired and trapped in denim
Too many buckles and buttons and zippers
But in freedom you do nothing more than drape over the sofa
Love in compasses you, freshly laundered.