One little pale fresh tennis ball of rain
bounces across my forehead. Fifteen-love.
I have very bad posture. An only somewhat
inquiring mind. But they tickle me
the many and various uses for mayonnaise
considering there is only one use for poetry.
To lose money. To lose money. Toulouse Monet.
I think we just connected, you and I.
We’re inside of really quite a touching moment.
Balloons lost in the trees. Balloon fruit.
Rottenway
the rotten the rotten way you therotten
way you look in the morningthe rotten way
the bedroomrotten in the morning the rotten
bright wind the rottenbrightwind in the trees
the bright wind opens a gate in the trees
I am wide awake the rotten way you look the breath
the apple is a white dumpling the rottenway
you look in the bright wind morning opens
wide awake and whitesoft and blossomy
I close the window and really it’s a thrill
lopped off on the wet grass this bloody rose
your crown of moss your moss-wings
how dreadful to find out you’re awake
that it all carried on and without much fuss
The Lying Nude
When I say this view is bananas
you know I mean it’s gorgeous.
I tried pointing an app at all that sky.
My phone said result type: masonry.
You have a face like a face being torn to shreds.
I fucking love you so much right now
my hair hurts and there’s fancy mustard
where once upon a time I had a belly button.
When I say you you know I mean
thee. One fine meadow offers clemency.
The stubborn red tulips make keystrokes
in the paltry breeze and I think
whoever built the first arch was crazy smart.
Oh your dirty elbows. Hello.
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