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.