You think your heart is safe dangling in front of your face like a fresh apple stabbed by an icicle that is infested with termites that dance to un-heard music of which is just a spell cast by the chameleons surrounding us who are now leeching onto our faces like ticks a tic-toc we gonna be dried raisins by the time these vampire lizards get their fill but I forget that it is your heart I speak of, so let me speak of it:  BLEED BLOOD BLED let the ambrosia of your legs coat the back of my mind like ice cream stuck in my throat CLAW CLAWS CLAWED let my fingers slip under that umbrella that shield your feet from tears BITE BITES BITTEN let my fangs sink into the stem of your blooming face—aka lets fuck.


Pickle Crush

I feel like pickles. Yep. Squishy yet somewhat hard with a sweetly sour taste.

I feel like pickles. Long and green, thick in the formaldehyde that has them frozen in a jar.

I feel like pickles. Bumpy and jumpy, flawed in texture to the point where the mere sight of them makes you cringe and shiver and spit and rip words like stems of flowers and other poetic shit that describes how you talk shit and don’t give a shit about whether or not I give a shit… Which I don’t. I do, but I don’t. I try to slide my pancakes down the apron of the stage like the fat ugly cook I am with a talent out-gauged with a bit of butter and a pinch of sage– and what do you do? You Eat waffles. Goddamn Belgian waffles. A year ago I liked you; a year ago I didn’t know you.

Now I still don’t know you, but you shouldn’t look at me like you’ve got some magic telescope that says my mind “ain’t dope” and you skip the “hellos” and go straight to the “nopes”
while I sit in the Jell-O of that waddle-waddle soap and breathe your eyes that spawn inner convos of one-sided nature– I can’t cope.

So I don’t give a shit that you’ve got none to give. Go sit in your pie, I’ve got mountains to climb. But if you do find some shits to give, let me know–
Cuz I still feel like pickles.

Free, True, Love bby