Why do I fuck you? Because I can, I
suppose. And by that, I surely
mean some vague
sense of can in a juvenile existential sort of
manner, I suppose. I fuck you, because I’m too much of a spiritual
coward to put a gun to my head and
it all. I still harbor hope that a third way beyond time
and space will wrench me from this
weird moment of what-the-fuck I find my
planted in, somewhere between cowardly vomit and
mud. For years, I’ve known
I’m done living, but for more
years, I've known that the confrontation and its empty stage lights
scare the ever-living-shit-out-of-me -- that weird, warping sensation
of time curving, stretching into unending void. We weird, weird
spots of meat
consciousness writhing, cocoon-like shuddering as we moan
creation’s moans and pains, ripping ourselves from the
sweat stains of the universe -- beyond all reason, beyond
all odds, which makes it so.
Wrap into your quilted scarf, grandmother. I still feel your slick, shiny,
silver red slip. I know that’s too many
colors, but neither of us should have stole that moment
yet there we were. My mother, in truth, replacement
My shoes still shine bright.
Though, they no
longer lace. Sunsets devoured. Just, yank me from this wretched pudding decision, not the milk, but the feeling -- as I still crave the nurturing and always shall ink-put, scratch, crawl, tear soliloquies softened listened as we struggle to understand more than the music of these inexplicable
What even happened from the first moment I entered you?
Ah, yes. I died. But not before a universe cracked egg shells, seeped into the void of your turgid lips and swam like hell to the horizon of a new big bang --
pulled from the scratches of our DNA.
So, I suppose, I fuck you because I’m an English major with too much time on my hands and still believe in ghosts.
Do you love me too?
Said, antennas didn’t think so. But goddamn that guitar can strum.