Some thoughts on a smooth breakup

Broken hearts!
And shit
And cupid
And red.
And the smell of sex rotting my bed.
And the pretty girls.
All of them
Like, everywhere.
With their fairytale hair. Why is there always a breeze to make them look beautiful?

I’ve eaten better bratwurst than your penis
And those screams were for want of better meat
And mustard.
Oh, and a poppy seeded bun.

I take back all the babes
I babbled your way.
And there might be sugar in your gas tank.
And you always said I was so sweet.

Just to be nice, I’ll name my next bratwurst after you.

breakfast and religious shit

Mary
stares at me
through silhouetted
crumby
wondertoast.

I am holy,
she boasts.

She is brown
and begs for butter.

confess your sins
at breakfast;
leave your secrets
within my crusts.

though
i don't know
if I can trust
this
holy dough

or if
i should talk
to toast

She seems sad
beneath a smear
of cream cheese

The early bird

Bitches watched a blue swallow tattoo
needle ink into her
neck
after she nearly drunk herself to death.
birds, bimbos, and blowjobs belong.
neck and neck.
next to gold Jesus
outstretched.
welcomes
ejaculate.
wet.
and milky
with a million
that die on her chest

late at night

alone
and smell like
smoke.
blond marlboro
and owned
by emotion.

lonely wind
combs
my skin
reminds me
what I've
missed.

some loss
of innocence.
sex in sand.
powders.
flowers
& something to
call
ours.

hands on
my breasts
while I scrub
dishes.

I wish my
sheets smelled
like sex
and not
tide.
I wish I could
wake up
and not cry,
eat eggs
and sleep again
and wake up
vile
with a
crooked smile
and aisles
of ache.

I feel like
a mile
of mistakes.
miss takes
a walking
earthquake
and a sick
inner bitch
I can't
shake.

I want
to rid
all of it.

my one true love

tryst's definition
is
with.

and sometimes
there's secrets.

why are all
these miles
on my car

is that new
perfume?
lipstick?
skirt?
and since when
did I
learn
to flirt.

there's a mirror
in my purse now
and I blast my music
a little
louder.

he is my
secret meeting.
my on switch
my tryst
with.

he doesn't know
I wrote this.

I have other
trysts.

Should I slow it down for you?

I cry,
ok?
Let me be
and let me have
my salty
sprinkles
drift across
my cheeks.

it isn't weakness,
crass ass.
and stop asking
why this happens.

this isn't my solution
I don't have loose leaks
I don't need pipes cleaned,
are you listening?

it's my outlet
my dead end outfit
my last luck
dumb struck
shit fuck
this sucks
bite the dust
reflex.

my
missed the last bus
duct flood.

does this process,
thick skull?

I recognize
your emotional
retardation
as a
severe
limitation
in your
maturation,
and your inability
for empathy
is evinced
by your
heart's
extrophy
or lack of
that
aforementioned
organ.

did you catch that?

Norma

She is
the
who's who.
the owl's hoot.
the late night booze.
the party crew.

She has these curly
Q's.
cute.

She's the
I love you boo
who runs from truth
and true blues.
daggers a hole
before
its possible
and destroys the seams
so no one
can sew.

it's too bad
there's booze and
beauty
to blunt
reality.
blur
the
sadtosees.

and she laughs a lot
to distract
the spot that
bleeds
the blackest.
twists insistence
ace bandaids
until the puddle
lessens.
but she still
buries the bullet.


erects a deflect
detour
with
flashing orange horses
and tries
to live something
less horrible.