"To get a writer to fall for you, you just have to write about the moon!"

So she chirped—and so I will write about everything but,
like her ****, which I've never seen, but I imagine
could be a whole-*** natural satellite all by itself
(that's why they call it mooning),
the kind of satellite that brings all the boys to the yard,
all the boys who look for the NEOWISEs and Hale-Bopps in the night sky.
If I wanted to date a *****,
I would ask for Freud, and he would ask about my mother,
and I would wish that she was divorced and single.

Hell no, I don't want a writer falling for me.
I don't want anyone to fall for me.
I want to drag them down myself, into pits of mud and tar,
two grimy pigs slobbering and kicking and falling over each other.
I want the kind of love that lasts just a single night,
a night where all the snakes and swans and bears in the sky come alive,
where every corner is a new musical, every step a new circus,
where the flutes and pianos and violins blare just as loudly as the sirens chasing us,
where time is bottomless as mimosas.