My heroes growing up
were golden-haired princes
and gun-toting superspies
that would crash through my bedrom windows
and whisk me away
to a world more beautiful than this one.

My heroes as a young, ***** teenager
were the scruffy rebels.
Sid Vicious. Joan Jett. Amy Lee.
Gerard Way. Brendon Urie.
who would scream their ways through my bleeding ears
and pierce my heart like needles,
And stir my pre-pubescent *** drive like a raunchy letter to a middle-aged, dissatisfied wife.

My heroes changed as I grew older
As my standards became lower for them.
because I thought i didn't deserve anything.

The man across the street who smiled at me.
The man who offered me a towel when I threw up on the bus.
The classmate who gave me directions once.

Then I met you, and you saved me.
Like the golden-haired prince
and gun-toting spy
from my dreams.

But today

One came in the form of a lady who bought a necklace from my mother.
And now we can afford two coffees instead of one.

Modern-day heroes.
****, I need to learn to save myself.

this isn't exactly absinthe! and yes, i was once accused of writing a "word salad" conceptualisation of said language... personally i just think the said  language is, a bit *******; of course not on a per se basis, but simplified by people who speak it, at said time, 2017.

                                           what's this washing-line doing
in my bedroom?!

      is this what you call secondary blinking?

seriously! what the **** is this washing
              line doing in my bedroom?

       is this a bad joke about drying pancakes?

  god... i've been watching too
                            much *hotel transylvania;

either that or i spent this afternoon
   hanging clothes and bedsheets on the said lines

hence the millisecond's worth of hallucination,
what, you can't be serious,
a milliseconds's worth of "seeing" a washing-line
in your bedroom?
    
                          if i'm going to "dry" my pancakes
i'd use a napkin to soak up the fat from the frying...
              oil from pancakes wouldn't drip, or i.e. drool
like dog's bother for excess saliva...
                and if i spoke to a child of mine,
i'd say: i really need to explain the concept of ikea to you...
which would be much easier than any
                                                             ­  talk of ***.

but no, i'm pretty sure it's too much hotel transylvania;

and it's this: snapping out of a dream, or a
                               millisecond's worth of hallucination;
shortcrust l.s.d., and i'm basically blinking out of:
                             a washing-line       in my bedrom;
so we have the underwear.... what's hanging on it?
          underwear, bedsheets, shirts, towels...
                       i'd love to add: napkins, handkerchief,
bowties... but i can't... it's enough for that millisecond's
worth of blink and hallucinatory conjuring of the washing line
in my bedroom to riddle me for the next two days;

           what did a critique of the famous grouse
                                turn me into? ignition for a madhouse?

i keep a map in my mental
of where not to go
roads that i've traveled
that nobody knows
and i swear to myself
that i'll never return
while i sit in my bedrom
and watch map edges burn
with a lighter from when i was younger