Hard to write, I don’t know, sewing trains together with leather hitches.
I’ve grown entire sounds of myself, puttin’ me thick foot to me ear. Hard to hear anything save seathieves with bones sewn to their hats. Arrrr. The birds go: Arrrrr.
I’ve got teaspots on my trousers, probably Edna O’brien in there. Scintillating, she is, filling my open mouth with black epistles.
So Santa Fe is a no go. Can’t stand in the Grand Canyon yet, no-siree. See the blue tavern in Jersey where workers go to throw some back. How handy the brandy we used reading next to each other on 14th street, like brim swishing in cool soup.
And now I am you with my simpering, lips zipped like a dumpling. No ‘to the train’ with us, traveling spattered black notebooks all over. To hell with homebodied no-show wip-fictioniers. We’ll warpath all the while in the dark, your hoary chest making my face more Irish. To croon all day, use proper nouns, sound like Lisa in the big city with this knitted cap for you.
Merry is the way we prance with that little dog. And all night I’m beside your enormous body. Mine slips off like a graceful cape lighting the entire timbre, sores on my oily mouth from begging everything backwards, that the body in my bed is instead. A bright quick thing. A torn slip of paper we were written in ever since.