i wait for a world where cats can come with me
to look underseas and the shrimp have tails
tasty and i won't taste like fish on my own self
where my lover will go on dates with pretty girls
good times paid off but not enough
good nights send off but only a kiss
where my lover comes home to fuck me after a miss
after drinks and times and walks from the car
where my lover calls me to fuck me after a diss
after carrying her books and waving from afar

where my lover tells me i'm just a good fuck

who stole the drugs

was it the king of hearts

was it the fear of sars

was it the single of beds

was it the white of walls

was it the lake of beer

was it me?

was it everything everywhere and the only places that exist outside of here and the shapes I take my thoughts in vials of clear and the youth brigades that believe in me and the magician's miracles of mornings won't sleep, and

maybe it was lost fifty years ago in scrolls and scripts indented with run-on recounts of the fifty years before that or maybe it was the next generation of who are we going to be and how are we going to find this person we are all right now, and

maybe it was packaged over the counter and sampled for free by family doctors and lou reed and they didn't think much of it except for at night in awful songs about distaste that sound good to ephmeral listeners who retain only ten percent of what they can hear, those goddamn useless human beings, and

maybe it was tested on monkey brains that we eat overseas and panda bears that we stuff with adoration and doodling spirals down spiral notebooks in the endless endings of every time we make time, we have time, or we don't, to sit down and don't think, and

maybe it was the invention of soap bars to wash the fingernails and toenails that crack under pressure or under skipped pills of vitamins and estrogen and daily reminders to be this and do that and play a song before it's too late to like that song for its complex ambiguity and ability to implode under, and

maybe it was the boredom and the boys in red shirts and wanting to be bored with everything we don't have in our boredom and wanting to take red shirts off of boys if only to see that red is not a colour you can find outside of their skins or their shirts, and

maybe it was the death of something great or the start of something nothing or the sex between layers of light waving from skipping stones and the best pees of our lives are yellow with doubt and hate of hate and tokens that cost more than the tokes you could have had without leaving the earth, and

maybe it was the self-writing novellas and the rhyming two-liners that come naturally like it was all meant to be discovered by us or by the officials who were us once a long time ago and have now forgotten what it means to be us, and

maybe it was a witch who flipped a switch and wrote a proverb against her broomstick dildo when nobody else wanted to drink potions not potions but rations of intake don't get carried away don't go away from us don't lose us because we are all lost don't be the intention or the superstition don't cry when it's gone don't cry because it's there don't die, and

maybe it was me.