June 6, 2018

I’ve got no love for anything that isn’t fixed, and so I love nothing. These, the tectonic plates of sleep—you’re yawning and I’m dreaming or vice versa, it is cyclical so who could say? Hindsight is not 20/20, and I am still mining things out of the rough of this.

What I meant when I said you were a grey area worth naming: You, baseball bat haloed in barbed wire You, thirty six exclamation points in a row !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’m pretty sure you’re not an arsonist, but that flamethrower you carry? Suspicious. All the skeletal, ruined architecture of people you keep leaving in your wake? It ain’t lookin’ good.

Let me clip the wires of confession as a distraction from the five hundred attack dogs of your laugh.

 You, great thunder
 You, apples in the gutter
 Bees drunk on the wine of rotting fruit