Got the heavy chest sad-sad feeling that sits uneasily above my rib cage, a very fat child in a garden gnome costume. It makes me sluggish and lethargic, pen goes from sword to damp paper straw. Idiot-skin leaves precious missions permanently unattended. The weekend email hacked by death fearing idiot-skin. Astronaut wannabe idiot skin. Today I decided I would make it to 2065 and be shot into space therefore after.
Mock them. Reply to my texts. Be gracious. Point out the emergency exits. Give, romantic existentialist. Help me lift the fat gnome child sitting & let’s go someplace. Crumble me and us home.
Curtain, it falls.
Collection: PERFORMANCE ARTIST POETRY AND BRAIN FARTS FOR UNSOLICITED MICROWAVE HEADS