The saddest day, it was yesterday.
Smoky sullen pushy congested lightless sky day.
Wrecked and weathered, gluey, obtuse and penned with
Melancholy and wanton desire. Wanting on and selling off

The Vampires and wretched thieves hibernating back in coach,
Seated in peacock-scoundrel dress. There's was the rudimentary
Yet pertinent foulness of childlike hatred, but they wore it under
Coarsely fitting suits to cover their hefty bags of ginormous fat.

Fatty ***** to scrutinize. Fatty ***** to wallow in the throes of
Dark fatty dementia.
Purses of alabaster filled with hemoglobin. Obfuscating zilch.
Scurvy on the arms, reptiles in their ears, and a million miles of
Stenchy, noisome, in glut. Wallowing, heavy and anti-professional.

Loff-less, un-catchy, unkempt, and in a clamor.
Boarish and obtrusive.
Gushy of anguish and the uncomfortable hide of rhino
Replaced for the swill excrement vetted porcine hocks of a
Kaleidoscope rich, aftermarket slug-pact for the bowels of
This century's egoes. Heavy on the cheeses, Cheetos, and Pathos.

In the hutch, a gaily brimming sunswept valley chimes
With the fruitful gaiety around the crowned Pantone TX1333 and Sienna heads that does keep. Homes are heavier, heaving the shrills.
Archaic muted cries of childhood, upsetted tummies serving at the Sighs of Lucifer. There are scoundrels here and in the underwear and in The water and under the water.

Frogs moo, chimney's weep, most other's Mother's have done true **** Jobs keeping their reared up to par with the others to avoid being Other'd. And our own language isn't being kept. It's undoing itself atop The bridges of mouths and the ridges of jawlines, and they have faded Swiftly, and no surrogate or custodial colloquialism has lived up to the Shadows and forethought of our greatest grandparents. And what has Your Jesus brought you except uncertainty, foul-play, and foul players And despondent and boarish chicas.

So now there you have this: brevity.
Another soft-tipped dactylic hand for undertaking.
By the end of days there will be the licking of butts,
Poor movies with Salma Hayek, and the lot of children's books
No children, not even these triplets will remember their fine names:

Tee, Bee, and Cee.
Crocus and sourdough lilies
Brimming over the nostril opera's of
These adopted gospels.
Only the ramparts of our literary apartheid and totally ******
Sexualness in kids and dults of all ages.

she reads meat
eyes in a meeting
persistent of the trysts of leather
her steady trap-door arose
in her deposition
the latitude of her nubile degrees
Procrastinates his step,
Subtly overdubbing the scrawny pallid ache
In the etch'd skin, her color-by-numbers comes undone.

I'm getting gone.
I'm getting gone.
And the daisies are tryin' to move.
I'm getting gone.
And the sunrise is tryin' to come early too.
I'm getting gone,
And we stayed out late last night.
Tuesday morning we've got an early flight.
But if you aren't ready to go, I'll get dressed for us both.
We're getting gone.
Red pants and these Tom Ford shades.
You'll wear your Rick Owens sneakers and jacket onto the plane.
We survived another night on the road,
Now we've got to wake up before we're eating yesterday's dinner tomorrow.

We're getting gone.
And the neighbor's are going to keep complainin'
We're getting gone.
And we hold our tongues out even when it's not rainin'.
We're getting gone.
Let's get coffee and eat some LSD.
Smoke three cigarettes and then we'll leave.
We're getting gone.
Red pants and these Tom Ford shades.
You'll wear your Rick Owens sneakers and jacket onto the plane.
We survived another night on the road,
Now we've got to wake up before we miss another tomorrow.
We're getting gone.
We're getting gone.

But hold up 'cause I'd like to know you
I'll kiss your neck if you'll touch my face
Let's be a stereotype and make them wait all the time,
Ten more minutes, is that really the worst lie?

(Break)

We're getting gone.
And the girls and boys are running us down.
We're getting gone.
I can't remember, what's the name of this town.
We're getting gone.
**** my tongue while I turn you on.
I'll **** your tongue while you turn me on.

184 gone and in great despair
one hundred eighty four trials and institutions. 184 new reasons to forgive
to use, to be confused, to lose, and to get loose all gone
they are all gone. gone for good, forever, for evers and everys, somewhere on Everest, or likely just high up in the sky. Somewhere in the chasm of iCloud or hidden on the hard-drive of one of my Macs.

Tired and Hurt, Anxious, Alert, all of me is frustrated my skin is doing different things, all of it is baffling and I don't even know how I'm going to try to keep mildly sane, all of them are gone and I'm a total wreck, I am.

One-hundred Eighty-Four Notes on my iPhone gone. They're all alone, all of them on their own. Me I'm just by myself and squarely overwrought. Confused and upset, I wonder if the Mac God's have tried to take their pain and loss of the Jobbs out on me. All these note's are gone and I don't know what to do. Do I swear? Do I sweat? Do I call Apple instead of setting myself to burn? What have I done? What have I done to come down to a blank screen lost of all its myriad characters.

The pages don't care, I'm sitting perturbed in my underwear, baffled, unamused, furious, and feeling used. My trust combusted, my one hundred eighty four are gone. And no one cares. All my notes are gone and no one knows. My poems are gone, I sing this song, but all my words are gone don't you know? They're all gone....don't you know! I want my 184. I need my 184- don't you know! I just can't ignore, my 184.

We've got sounds, we've got city.
It's really coming down but I can't see it.
Airplanes? Apollo or just another meteor?
Weekend Thunder Wind on Friday morning.

I can carry the thick. I can carry the idle.
But my sea legs don't kick in while I'm standing on dry soil.
If it's going to be Red Dawn, I'd like to at the very least
Have a chance to put my boots on. But if it's not Construction or the chill Of Winter, it might just be the Weekend Thunder Wind doing fly-bys on a Friday morning.

All night hungry burning sweet grass, California sage, and listening to the wind talks of the Navajo. She's asleep at my back, but the gusts are 21 miles per hour and chasing after all the gales. Another slamming, shaking crash from the Weekend Thunder Wind acting spoiled on a Friday morning.

Dogs they **** inside the house.
The shingles are getting gone.
The tuning of the A-string is brutally wrong and off.
I can hear T. Rex's dancing and having ******,
Or maybe it's just the Weekend Thunder Wind waking up one day too early.

I've been haunted thrice and seen my guts ooze out
Its hellacious and abhorrent.
But there's 17 more hours to hang out with
The Weekend Thunder Wind while we get coffee and The Chicago Quarterly.
If the Spring weather will be arriving soon.
Let's wear our Ray Ban's and fly kites this afternoon.

Crawling out onto the porch, I see a set of doors
Their colors are so cool, but keep my journey on its way.
I make my knees into hands and I see myself up onto my feet.
There isn't even a mirror or reflection, something that could make easier
For me to see her the way I see her when I see her.

I take the taste. I drink the ***.
I swallow all the spit from off her tongue.
We sleep in threes, We count in fourths.
Play rock 'n roll and scream in our sleep.

Sometimes I felt like I was alive, until she turned the loudness up on me.
Now I travel in high fidelity with certain definition.
My dreams are just the parts of my day.

I knew someone would come for me
While I laid awake in my fifteen year old bedroom at night.
She came to me, and now I'm making sure not to leave her.
I want to invent colors and languauges to make her world ours.

Well hello poetry, give me your astrology, hold out your hands let's have the maps your treasure's keep.

Sing me the songs now, your idle devotions, the languages of lucifer you
hide in your pots and pans. If you're awake, go back to sleep, it's time to eat you and cry on your pants. In a mistake that the garden you've kept on a clock, analog visuals to change how you talk.

While the song it keeps exploding, you only know how much you've been holding. Don't be too tired to call out if you need. It's late but don't forget how much veterinary school is worth, even the bumps and early morning rattles won't shake you at your core. It's morning now, the heat is on. The rustling of peasants start to grumble for their eats. Pumpkin with coconut oil in Ed's dish is the greatest point in her morning's happiness.

I don't cry. I don't cry. I just talk about it, in voices that only you understand. I don't cry. I don't cry. I just care about you. As much and more than the certainties you care about me too.

It's getting noon soon. And the cold is growing. I'm talking myself into getting more clothes on pretty soon. I don't cry. I don't cry. I'm just pretending to keep me going. I'm so enamored by someone as cool as you do. Let's play pretend, but keep all of this still going. Our neverending portrait drawings of Wednesday afternoon. Do you try? I try. As much as you have taught me. The weather doesn't affect how much I'm talking after you.