Itch those *****, player
Itch them red raw
Bleeding?, who cares!
Embrace your oozy pores
Itchy itchy morning rise
Scratchy scratchy nights
Give me a show I'd like to forget
Make me close up tight
Itch those *****, giant manchild
Itch them to completion
Whatever you got to do, do
During itchy and scratchy season

i leave behind residue in beds
i am grimy and saturated from dirt
my muddy footsteps follow you into the bathroom and i smudge the mirror with my fingers, crusted and cracked from the heat

i follow the shadow of the sun and trail their streaks of death
it drips down my thighs and stains your carpets
i am vermin i am disease i am death and decay
my stench sullies the walls and my greasy hair sours your stomach
you pinch your nose as i pass by and i cannot find it in me to blame you. i would too.

I’d forgotten
Or discovered

Your eyes like faded denim
The smile you’d try to hide
The way you like to tease me
Can’t make you laugh although I try

Like laying in fields of lilac,
tour Tassie attached to my hip.
I rang you like religion
Just to tell you about the trip

there are hard days, they are long ones
I bare just to hear your voice
When my head is filled with static
You’re cutting out the noise

Laying in a dingy tent,
staring at the Milky Way
You told me how you felt for them
the honesty cast fears away

We went to two different festivals
one day after the next
It felt like we were both there
But watching different sets

To wake up to you in winter
Samson whines me back to sleep
The mattress is barren without you both
But The bed’s too warm too leave

You send your love in lettered form
Like medicine in mail
and though the sentiment is old
I found relevance today

Sometimes I fret that you don’t care
How foolish and ambivalent
Sometimes I need reminders of
why I loved you to begin with

Life at this moment you cant be bullshitting
me. There isn't an April fools that's getting
even close to what we find ourselves hitting
any where near to this.  it's so unfitting.

But no matter the **** hitting the fan,  I haven't got
any bog roll. I can only poo outside before I'm caught.
But leaves are natures wipes and I'm dammed if aught
I'll sleep with skids on my sheets, but if I do I'll just smile.

But underneath I gag as the sweet corn is natures reminder
to wipe before, as they feel like coffee not  put through the grinder.
I feel like crap my legs woefully tanned, not because of the sun,
crap skidding my legs,  as if you lift the sheets its a gross viewfinder.

Like a swamp ****
it grows in the boiling water of saucepans.
That seems to be the only way people cook it.
It's slimy and soggy
and tastes of death.
The corpse of a once thriving plant,
now in the coffin of the saucepan.
Disgusting.
Revolting.
Why would anyone see that ditch ****
and think,
"Looks edible!"
Obviously they were very wrong.