I never knew a motor who had held it's blade so low
I'd never known a cutter who had deep cuts that They would show.

Never in a million years would sheer hair tear a part of me.

Your hair was brown.
And mine was black.

But gray is all I see.

All I can see is two people.
Two old fleshbags wasting food

All I see is the church we built.
The gooey stoop that held our mood.

I'll only plop a squat when concrete hell is mooshy met.
I'll only forget my god and dog, when my preacher is my vet.

I have wishes to grant,
Stories to finish.
Dreams that are still waiting to come true.

I have nothing.

I have jokes with no punchline
No breath to breathe into my proteges,
Nothing to give to my lovers.

Bread and bridles debriding spittle
and little glass lentils made of starch and silica salt.

Bent
Tilted
Wrended and upended on a layer of greasy catfish.
I wish I were so slimy
And licked about with my whiskers out of me.

My meaty barbels are my eyes when I can't see.

Your were like light yesterday
On paper I may that;
That...that golden bow had curved and on your hair it lays.

Polka-dotted Peppermint
Smattered across our faces.
Shattered even-temperament;
Icy; hot, our hearts, it races.

There used to be a long line of boxes filled with ***** and an epiphany.
Lipped it, ring around the roses hung over headboards and wrapped all up in itchy blankets.
So after shooting up, the dresses hung out to dry are all done, and it's time to break apart
everything, it's frozen.
That's why we got up so early, it's a lot easier this way.

Aptitude test
Last night I had a nightmare.
Last night I was a worm.
I did not have a spine,
but that was not my concern.
All I eat is dirt and ****,
and that's alright with me
I don't even have eyeballs
I hardly want to see.
All I am is fodder
For food
For good
Animal be.
I have to poach my culture for existence
and humanity.

Captured on the blue lined edges of paper
Was an envelope, wrapped in parchment.

A sort of stipend built in jelly
and telling me how to feel
about supporting systems
at the same time as
stacking and ticking time
off of your belly
Melded out of celly made systems
The rhythm is the joke of it
stoke in fires
the lyre of arhythm
a prism and animal
happy trap built apathy
a rapture be some sappy he
turnabout into a ninety three
under the knee
how bout it be

In my mind there is a place
Something I still can see
Breakfast on vacation
Accessed in a memory.

In my head was something
made out of clay and hell
but it's still so cold
tempered with love. live lovely bells

Every morning
Every day
We both needed each other
and breakfast
and a way to get back home again

To get home,
for dinner
love
and fights
and lovely heart built stories
made for your and my delight.