one for the messed up woman
The Boeing is cut apart and rifled open-ended into the termination shock with us strapped into coach seating. Dashboard numbers. You’re the person I would or wouldn’t want to be? This house where I linger. This home where sleep is demolished. Take us to Moroccan food. Cupped hands full of cola splash the face and darken in noon sun. Went downstairs and encountered bow shock; get out now. Spill everywhere you love and pound nails into the floor of a dead archetype’s font. Love you alright. Gone TO morose lacquer ponds. We both make choices, we bury our own appetizers.
Slowed Tux, a bow of bleachers alongside. Display your houses fully dressed. Chipped paint of the Grecian car wash museum: sing an old man to sleep in a truck bed of combed hair. Long-haired moths in a briefcase sleep at altitude. Let them out on the sand and pet them goodbye. They aren’t bats, fucking rewind; always coming up here slamming dresser drawers and talking loudly like you own the place. Each drawer is a museum of a year of metro sound and not enough winds have forgotten to dispose of them quietly. Pick passenger #2 up off the Tran-Quil and smooth her out on the bed. She’s a waterfall, now.
She’s a hologram, a land, the crushed fruit of foil: pumped colors into the soil and came up with a name. Grow whatever you want and eat from it. I was going to tell you something before about very large moths but I forgot when we both started pouring cola onto Grecian plane tickets in the dresser drawers and tried to grow ourselves some miles. I was sitting down in my Boeing in the carport texting you the address and you said Fucking Unpainting, One Sec. Unpainting? I came back from reading a menu and said it wasn’t even in the same country. It’s understandable, though, the ways of your heliosphere. So thoroughly needing you now.