in the 3 am dim
I did not have the strength to listen again.
this is the con with eating your crow
alone. it’s lonesome.
better off to have the friends over, turn on
a screen or two, break out the bags
of drugs, crack open the cold ones.
make things loud, for godssakes.
otherwise, yes, the listening
to creaky Cole Porter records
spin an old memory of doing it,
falling in to an old experiment,
de-lovely, anything goes for a bit…
is a pretty type of painful. ‘I would
prefer not to,’ thank you very much,
I say to myself, scrivenerly.
bubble tea in your belly, we roll together
on warm sheets, not washed in a while.
days like these, you find fun where you can
in times like these. laughter–‘please,’ she
said, so you do, or rather, I do. I did. we could
run away just me and you, go to New Zealand
or Canada: let’s do it, let’s become a Cole Porter song,
a Joni Mitchell jam. I haven’t had a case of you yet,
but a few bottles is enough to fuck me up. I’ll always be in the bar
and you should know that about me. at words pathetic
I’m so poetic, it’s grating, I’m sure.
tapioca is good in tea
but that’s about it, we both agree.