preternaturally longish grey hair,
acid-yellow buckteeth hanging from the
slathered lipstick of your thin upper lip.
(a wigged version of Billy Corgan).
fixed into a moronically concentrated pucker,
failing at the illusion of fullness.
while garnishing an apartment with the
paraphernalia of a free spirit too stale to beat
to death, a just-so of obsessively repeated
finishing touches.
the remanent rise of ******-***** coziness,
niche/nook/now--you, no...wind doesn't like you.
the very thought of your current routine is as
flotsam as the passion-**** you once dealt.