written November 16 2010 listening to blissdicks



stolen kisses and
sliding doors only my hands
still smell like butt crack


across the crepes my
knife is a sore loser to
reach for your fingers


I died so many
periods ago; you shrug, born-
again nutrients


sunday afternoon
in bed: you do nothing--me
scream glory glory


lady lazarus
baking dicks in oven mitts
didn't have my tits


twilight, left of food
basics you taught me: to look
back in purple prose


drop the moon, blake, my
blue balling talent, sexy
sure, but read me, sky.