I will not revise no never-(_0_-
Vomit in the foyer
and a reminder: burger patties.
Drone of a television:
behind courtyard walls the
suicide girl clutches her remote;
these memories are wireless,
and streaming, a real
tourniquet sans buttons.
Back to creeping fingers
to ward off parched throat.
Plunge into columned skin.
We spoke of flayed facial flesh,
the blood drops pittering
down the cheek. My
mouth is dry in daily thought,
and while the bands sucked
tonight one of them didn’t.
I think I’ll send you
a message later; carpet bombs.
Bombs for the babes,
for the lightning beings
and crass espionage failings.
Wandering around: wondering
aloud—blackout, bonanza’d
sam-itches in a foreign city.
We are plastered forever
waiting for bombs forever and
still, some news clips preloaded.
We can ride the train to work
reading them and thinking
of not calling anyone else
including your sisters.
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