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The desk is filled with chronic papers always wanting to solve their own illness
The only depression I feel is the cleft where my male part goes, I am propulsion
The event horizon is breakfast: two eggs better than tits/a keyboard/a dream
I'm a burning ball of fire and feel mandated to 'get things done', therefore I scream
.
Over the chest-high cinderblock border wall the laundry line sags with tops and towels.
In this city yard relic with rural, decrepit boughs waist-heavy with tits of green limes
unbred women unrhythmically ill-choose words, convey nothing but craving and belch.
This is the watcher view. In my hauteur, I am unwitnessed and splendid.
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