Things surrounding things
fill my Wicked Tuna grid
heart with a swishy austerity-like
intention. I cut my post-fleshy
forearms & bleed a serious parallel
echo chamber reading everything
to approve of nothing. I massage
my anterior cruciate ligaments
to celebrate a hard won royal flush.
This mind is slick-like and easy-like
and music-like and gesture-like
and, as I am the dappled heathen
you've been given internal permission
to dismiss from your sacrosanct
barricades and bounty systems,
coy, and shit-like. A second first-person
recapitulation does not defiantly
buy shape rightly here. Sane
continuity is your trashy blues
making progress out of heart's lack.
How should I know you're not
there bleeding, respectably
to conclude a moist relentment
and make my evil labors clear?
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