The birds are lying on the critter trees like beans.
The dogs are lying, too, to their own bruises. I’m
not even hungry, but I have a headache, so I should
probably eat a broken pizza, but then there is you.
You taste like an apple, whereas Bubble Girl like
a super fruit-bat. This inane disruptive moaning con
tinues and then it gets real dense. Here is your good
wrapper, Mister Owl Bird. Zero has gone on to love
the burnt bulbs, a crumb of which I shall not see. Nor
shall I bear the dark in me with such brazen limbo, yet
again I start to fly the birds. In me another me in love
with nothing. Like you said of the banana theory, it is
my only valentine, a hard [snowman] inside of my gut.
We brake for mystery as we break from each other.
