like a bell that rings for
a hell of a lot of no good things to say I
need things and I need a sense of needing
things and I need to fill time like time is all
there is which is a truth more than anyone
admits.
Calendar love dialogue, my lover is a page
turning calendar, my lover is Next Sunday,
His day, His night, His throbbing morning with its
asshole birds, giving me a Tylenol and a pillowache,
assholes.
I am the King Crab on the ordinary day, I am the
hungry skeleton who profusely bleeds his every swallow of soup and
drink of lemon water and is so incredibly frustrated by it.
My frustration is ordinary.
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