something for you who hate poetry
a diseased metaphor wakes
at the slamming of the door
a limb allows for gesture
fuck yourself
and all the ire in a holding pattern
check sleeves for your lyrical
i, check my email
check my email
check my email
swallow slow sad goodbye that says some growler is waiting
in that courdaroy chair
sunken and somber its a dried blood orange
in my memory and still creeks with each movement
back and forth and overwrought
with revelry tantamount to sorrow in the dregs of tonic and salt water
i hear you laugh but i feel paroxysms of rage
baby tell me the chair or the memory
which one should i bury first.
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