I’m sweating and The 1975 won’t stop buzzing in my ears I don’t like the tourists who stroll around or the “rich” kids in the part of town they think it safe to clutch their pearls at the thought of abolishing Brandy Melville &&& over here, we want kisses and sweat and open mic poetry nights Ones where the host doesn’t launch a homoerotic standoff So I can roll around with my new kitten, the sweet street cat who loves me belly-up, she’s a loud lamb in tabby fur Reader, I’m doing it all again, it is true Life melts on my tongue and newfound fantasies dig up the clay of the earth with hands made of air Hands, which wait watch hope. These hands, these hands, a fine artisan’s creation God, who cares about a vulture’s devastation? O, please let these gentle hands be mine! You won’t kill me how others have attempted prior (at least, I don’t think so.) Summer is cruel on occasion but the jailer’s paper rings have ripped in half The wave of time rolls and replays, I’m sure. Impropriety by one definition might be considered the work of outlaws past I want hot weather and a romantic’s novel heart even if it drives a cumulus to ire So let’s give it a try, I’ll grin to myself on every future pap walk and they’ll never know about the truth of this, the impossibility that always was Hello again, Mr. Darcy, “poetry, the food of love.” What a pleasure it is to meet a gentleman who knows that in order to tender a butch woman, one must do the work to change. Anachronism, anachronism, I gave the hounds the wrong kerchief Forgive me, I held to stubborn conclusions. It is you, dear, you’ve done it, I am bowled clean over (&&&, if you must know— sea glass is my favorite color.)
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