Gah. Work is killing me out of my mind. Dunno how that works, exactly, but that's the sentence that's sticking. And by "killing" I mean "boring." Just, you know, FYI.

So, I've been writing all morning. Writing writing writing...like I do....

I meant to write a story about Melanie the FreakishBosomsGirl and Special Hugs in the Elevator...but that will have to wait until I can do it justice.

Meanwhile, it's standard fare for me, composition-wise:


lonely wanted to write
a letter.

so write me, he says,
or nearly says.

she shakes her head

she just wants to sign
something sincerely. her
bedsheet 3am habits only
between her and what's scribbled.

meanwhile he signs them naked,

he signs them with his hands.
he signs them from greatness,
from latin america, from heroes and
the congo and something about coffee.

he writes she is awesome he writes
she is better

than boxers, than georgia peaches.
he had one once. he likes them.

she writes red she's on
fire she carves
words out of veins

catch her this dragon.

come put out

these flames.





lesstaken's inviting allure

a firecrew can't
unquench anything
left beneath smoulder.

i'd touch that scruff. i'd kiss
that shoulder.

on corners, from his mouth,
hang her edges of reason.
and something pink says shineon
beauti-
ful treason.

fasten your sheetbelts
for the crash of your pride.

when she waves
back at him
after each homerun

slide.




I was mostly just rhyming stuff and...stuff...I dunno. It's interesting to write stuff while pretending to be something else.