you want real ****** poetry
well cut me open

but all thats dripping out is coagulated procrastination
and I wonder

does the man living in the building across
see me naken from time to time?
what is his fascination with glass jars
I hear drunkards and bottles smash
from the windows downstairs
I wonder if he breathes smoke
and I wonder what he coughs up at night

my days last until 3 a.m.
my eyelashes carry designer hand bags
catching all that skin that
spills over

I listen to Claire de lune and feel like
scraping the itches off my scalp,
tiny thoughts trying to escape.

they'll never get far