irritable (fire) is the werd.
I despair.
I do not write anything interesting.
ironic, serious, mocking, maybe.
I hear the gossip of my peers,
here and there and in brooklyn,
and I write it down.
I write for fear of silence.
I write for my own privacy,
in my own mind,
in this generation;
this explicit morris desert,
full of blue werds and energy.
I despair.
cops can't catch me.
I play for the search of speech,
overall every girl,
and the restoration itself.
somebody left the gate open and the damn dog got out.
this is a lottery,
and I forgive the kitchen for being corrupt with cooking my heart
with oysters.
however,
poets are bulemic.
they purge.
I scare me.
I don't ever want to go.
tonight my house has fallen.
my body pushes forward.
I bleed out her heart.
canned corn and booze and goodbyes and this year
are all just as poetic as violent explosions.
I mispell you.
I hold ghost in my arms.
deathless.
I breathe your yellow arrows.
I'll wait til I'm sorry.