fuck poetry when I could be in a bed
with you no unfuck poetry
because how else could I enumerate
your tidal wave hair rising and crashing
under the light of my moonbeam fingers?
fuck tv when I could be at tate street
coffee on saturday morning livid
with jazz hopped up on the best damn cup of coffee in greensboro sharing bass notes with a caricature of iggy pop and you.
no unfuck tv because that's the way we spend our tuesdays giggling
up in high definition with a freshly packed bowl and your head on
my belly tired as tires pushing 85 on 85 for 85000 miles but netflix leads to chill leads to naked leads
to my tongue to your belly's favorite cavity leads to ho ly fuck hallelujah! if anything fuck god and
the devil fuck yin and closed fist yang fuck bodhisatva fuck dharma and the other things i dont know fuck the big bang because the
universe we fuck into creation is a rainbow balloon
bursting candy confetti compared to the one we leave when I, all hands and ribcage, am allowed to share your bed.