You need Julie Andrews like you need a knife in your back.
_________________________________________________-- Rock Hudson
Profusion. All gathers and against the grain ties to the other end and jests the jetty not protruded from that moment, now gone. All singing to face-to-face confusion. Every night, against the bar, an object of satire. That touch in the back, the dark: a mercy, a sorrow, a flat hand against the ass jean, then gone and grabbing for another drink with dirty dollars and fingernails. Sleep the milk around, and mark each hour a malady.
Better to be his downfall than the writer of initials on a husband’s lapel. That I understand and Ohio calls you her bitch. Your puzzle grows and still says fall. Fingerprints on the window like things scabbed over.
On days gone by: to say I know, and she’ll leave you on a conditional early afternoon.
To get behind decreation is to mind centuries as objects as a leg lying upon the coffee table. Just say it. The painful process in the far part of the world. In every river pore, a tossed off and vague poor animal. The bigger picture idea.
She eats ham and breaks eggs across your face, having no use for them, a destroyer now moaning for more.
This is what they call manipulation.
And in the room next to yours, a phone will sit there, unblinking and blue. You will quiver the quick, waiting for a tone, checking the time with nothing better to do. You will prop up words that lie and do not surprise her. You will be reason, and agree, you never were one for the small words.
So stand there, singing the sad out of your body. Or let it sit there, within, making you strong, more able, before eating you alive again.
