pink, this barren votive reservoir.
I texted him my knees and fell
facedown in seagulls. It’s today.
Dinner more often than not is a
short-bed of loneliness, another
dirty martini with a blue umbrella,
this decade that has all but been
formally dubbed Razor. I said
I wanted to crawl back into you,
Razor, alongside the corner of
Pine and Razor. Never having
once pled cramped! within this
selfsame jagged cloud of socks
that (fortnightly) pelt a rude
sandstorm of violent nostalgia,
bruises the tops of my hands
with aluminum needles. Razor’s
reply: ageless laughter. Starts
with globs of sour sonnet dust
which, when deeply-coughed,
are flung taut from the tongue
to form hexagrams of laden spit
that fry unpinkly on these once-
pink walls, leave us each as
dizzy as hunkered-out porks
crying uncle! over a
pink-bellied pi.
