Thursday, May 3, 2012
saccharine sarcasm. it is in my teeth. eroding. in a satchel, go ahead, carry it friend. "I remember, I was there" we went north. towards my past it's a big bad wolf. "what a tired bedtime story," you yawned. my heart retains much water, thereby, fat, like the man with a herniated spine, I'm alright, friend, I'm fine. (he moans about it, why can't I?) you don't remember anything- even though you were there.
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...