My mind is a milkshake. Now I understand
why she’s a language poet. People change,
though, and get dragged onto dancefloors
or out to his car to get willingly draped.
Rest of the night belongs to come home
with me. He’s so subtle under the covers.
What a mouse! We run into the rest of
the night, straightforward with no games.
Back to his car for more handsome and
somewhat vulnerable. He’s just nice
and comes home Jesus. Not like juice
or Diet Coke. That’s really the last
time I talked with him. It was
lovely and interested. What a
mousy slurry with artificial
inhibitors. I’m just the cat
the rest of the night
belongs to, the bark
of the willingly crêped.
Come home with me.
Mouse. Chest. Anymore.
Last night’s dance is this week’s
fog. Anyone? I’m straightforward,
nice, handsome with no games, and
milkshake. People change, though.
Now I understand why they get dragged
onto dancefloors and willingly moused.
It’s Sunday night with a movie. I have a
date with artificial, run it back and forth
and get rid of all of the evidence. Lovely.
Juicy. Jesus and Diet Coke. It’s two for
Tuesday and I have a date with my head.
He comes handsome and mouse with
sand and fog in Indonesia.
I called a clump of it.
But I haven’t heard back. He’s so
subtle under the covers but disappears into an
artificial slurry of air. Anyone? What a mouse!
