choo choo
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.
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