Tuesday, off-day of this world.
Pale faces ignore the sideways
Skewered poles of the symphony
That we so attentively abhor.

These hands are not weapons,
They are tools. My world,
And the one I share it with is handled
Through them.
Because of them, I can be a part
Of you.

I like to make indistinguishable shapes-shapes with tissue paper that lies around.
I like what my thorax makes, those unintelligible sounds.
Starting in or below my abdomen.
I hope death finds me
With this silly note in my hand.
I hope death understands,
It's fun to not be all that might-yee. To be a layman,
To fully and humorously
Understand just what it is
To have wiggle room.
In the eyes of god I want to be Slime.
In the eye of dog,
I am sublime.