The crockets are launched
The people are killed
Crits are ringing
Sentries are shooting
I know this, I was there
I'm not a dactor, not yet at least
I took spawn camping to the next level
It's true, they can confirm it
look it up yourself  next gen spawn camping
I did it, you didn't (unless you were there)
it was at 11:00 this morning
yea

The sun rises hot
Shining into my small space
I wish I had drapes.

I've only been camping a handful of times and this is the first we've been in about a year and its very nice and the outdoors is very comforting.  The stars in the sky shine so bright tonight, they remind me of my lovers smile. The bugs chirp and make so many noises it keeps me up, at late hours. The weather is hot and its humid so my hair sticks to my face and I sweat. I have to *** so bad but everyone is asleep and the bathrooms are unbearably disgusting. It took us almost an hour to set the tent up and we had hamburgers and hotdogs for dinner. The bonfire was warm. I can't wait to get out and go swimming in the lake later. Camping is alright.

drunk woodland children, we
ask so many questions, we
firefly skin. the picnic table beneath
our lamps, our ouija board, our girlfriends
next to us warm and laughing.
stories:
we tell stories to scare eachother
before descending into our tents
on the outer darks.
sweet night nothings.
& everythings.

i’m consumed by dreams of you;
somehow running;
somehow ******* my way out of my own inevitable
death.

a lady bug wing half-yanked and humming.
wind scorpion.
mosquito
in the early morning buzz, and i roll over
to see your puffy little sleeping face ::: sunlight there.
limp beyond the tent and zipper.

we eat mayo sharp cheddar salami wheat sammies
& take acid.
everyone one else goes on a group nature-hike,
but i stay behind
hallucinating of my dead mother in those sequined clothes she used to wear.
::: we play scrabble and talk,
until she leaves.
like love.
like guitar strummed chords and many hydrations later –
my tribe returns,
with fish.

the girl i love.
you/she roll joints in your lap,
in my lap,
in a chair and i mirage
the faces of everyone through glass &
slosh; through campfire
& lemonade.

There is not much more than lunch of your poor soul's gut. That which has hidden your chase,
Be it the same flurry you face, or the chaste, widowed band of loons
Supplicate snail-movements, while wading through the stiff lagoon.

Everything must, while the fissures grow grumpy.
While the dust settles inwards and the cracks fill with stuffing.
The particle stands stiff, while each nursery cries.
A pitter-patter of rain drops lurch the birds forwards towards flight.

Say the gumption to roost was the dork lit and idling,
Each abortion towards space, kept the rocket from flying,
Like the cannonball sneering, or the whistle of men
The trial and tribulations of the miserly pens.

If be swore the moors, concrete beds shuffle the snores.
Unlike any trumpet of nose notes or horns.
How each curious grumbler failed the ewe of his flock.
Lil' crock lodgers counting sleep  of each lot.

Who can practice commands, width that makes up a strake
In the morning the weir-men quaff each tea of their tastes.
Then comes to the rind, the hands each guided by eyes.
Stumps the bard of his nightshade in imported glass vials.

Show whomever the pleasure, the happy hell once began
Because under each gambit is the king of a lamb.

I’m sorry. It’s such a frightening
thing. While I’m covered in airborne dust
and dirt, somewhere out of the desert
you dream of losing a girl you never had.

Under a straw sunhat, I argue with a chubby bartender
who insists my “over twenty-one” wristband
is not enough to justify selling an overpriced beer
to my baby face. I run through crowds, back

to my campsite, cursing her under my breath
for delaying my drunken dance. But somewhere else—
out of the heat and the food trucks and the live music
and the showers in the backs of trucks—you know.

And you prepare yourself for the path I am down,
where I miss Frank Turner for the sake of stumbling,
and later my legs will tremble under a tent
that may or may not be my own.

So I'm going camping—
Hooray!
I just hope I don't  
Stay bored all day.

So I'm sleeping on hard ground—
Whoopee!
I just hope it doesn't
Get to me.

So I'm getting family time—
That'll be great!
The best thing that'll happen
Will be the memories we make.

When the pale Luna, goddess of the night,
Her silver blanket did upon the pond cast,
While gliding along the inky sky,
Near to the milky stretch-mark of stars
(Sign that the Universe is our mother)...
The air was thick with the violin symphony of crickets.

Beneath the knotted hair of a willow tree 
A campfire, asked to dance by the breeze,
With sheer joy crackled and sparkled 
At the sight of the petal-faced imps. 

In a foolish manner, one prodded the other:
"Go you and kiss a frog on the nodding!"
Wanting to impress his comrade,
He sprung up like a grasshopper off the ground,
And like a fox pup disguised himself in the reeds.

There, his torch revealed two sinister gleams,
A low CROAK and RIBBIT RIBBIT came with them.
The boy jumped and caught the wet ball of slime,
It protested in his cherub hands and wriggled in vain.

He moved his puckers closer to the little being,
Nature is the one who likes a good teasing,
He kissed it on head,
Then froze with dread,
The frog was a toad and the taste was displeasing.