Midsummer night.
Bloated stars wobble like
canceled sitcoms through the year-round blossoms.
I feel like I’ve been electrocuted by a plateful of
dessert. Gesturing
about wanting sexual adventure.
Questions coherently asking me what happened.
Telling me about how I’m no longer visible
in future’s collision, stalling right before impact.
A psychiatrist to the stars, I’m finally getting into
it. You have a messed up heart makes me feel
subtle. Busy this
morning with names of girlies.
Off-work hours my side is worsening. I believe
honesty is the hot
section but will know more on
Friday. And keep the channel open is not a great
name for a crowded brothel.
They’ve shut me
into a scanner to get scanned. Or is it the other
way around? Bomb
simple wants into week
until weekend.
Fortune rending kitchens in
the out of doors at four-thirty in the morning.
