I’ll suffer with the dawgs of Awgust. Let them
remember me this way, torn apart from my meat,
putting on the wrong face and forgetting to wear
a belt. The hallway’s doused in tingly lubricant
and breakfast is nothing but a couple of birds in
the attic. What found me there? What lasted
a year of losing, EXIT signs pasted on molars,
beckoning? Cater like a whistling siren, though,
bone them with any possible methodography,
and it’s breakdancing down staircases. All
edgy. And all edginess kills. Who wouldn’t
prefer raindrops of toothpaste, a deodorant
that puts its money where its mouth is, literally
covers it all up? I’m not afraid of baldness, per se,
but haphazard circle jerks? Call me a hand-held,
but let me sink into your couch like a crying meatloaf.
