FIST FIGHT IN A CROWDED LIVING ROOM

oh, then you're so la-dee-da that scarecrows pick at your
skin - this is what i mean by "understand": that each word itself devours and becoming something else, relates to nobody. still seem to be nobody, drag my ache-ed feet and crawl stupid through jerusalem (only if given the chance).

a symbiotic relationship
is present at best and presently we are
reprimanding technical difficulties,
pulling their very teeth without novocaine.

so we begin with a love.


and becoming much less of ourselves, we divulge our symptoms without remorse. i am still beating on the limbs of fire, sent to expel the wink-and-smile volition of mice. my feet skitter gladly across polished floors. your boots have been too tight for
too goddamn
long &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& the pants don't
fit. toss yourself into crimson traffic, speak in tongues. slow dance.

slow dance without feet for once, without measurement or compensation.


i am also afraid when glimmers grow forgetful and i'm left to the lightswitch and
nobody apart from books inside of me.
and so i leave deliberately, do my part unto life and slash my own tires
to keep myself from moving
this
way. stick without fail to an end.

LOUDLY, i'll stick with pins & force your jackass jawbone to break.