Breeze, listen:

Today the sweetest one hit me,

with his cheeks alert,

round and prickled.

And his black hair straight as asphalt, 1950

suburbia boy.

Dots and tings and plots and rings

growing on his back,

I have to swallow sand

to hold his heart

with my oil hands.



Right now my Apricot face is being held

back against a warm wall

And there is hot beer, empty mugs and asshole cigarettes


exploding



on the windowsill.




I think I know too many people

I should stop

because that's a lot of mourning.






My lover, he rides a donkey to work.


Gentlemen, rejoice with your hands down your pants:

You are free, you are free, you are free free free free freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...