turn the earth into a hot house.

shot you with stars until you were pockmarked and cratered. where's your guilt spilt measure in this call and response of vis divina secularity?

you're still running the lotto rotogravure sluice of life. you're still drafting the words for your world revival dust-up.

show us a little heart, dancetté wolverine, show us how to chevvy your tinder.

the adventures of a girl named lackadaisy and a boy who is god incarnate.

selling out goodnights for a dollar apiece and living my life in batches of friday afternoons. all this despair over a renaissance affair has left me as whitewashed and unseen as a ghost. shock rock and your hallowed laurels will do nothing to douse this nation's fever. you boast thirty-one flavors of ice-cream and i lay claim to gems like wycherly's wife.

i'm mellowing out like fine, rotting mead; golden and acidic and absolutely distasteful.


(precisely; i know you remain indecisive under stars i know you cannot sidestep sundays or proximity shots i know you slick your lips before you speak i know you down to the bone marrow and i've mastered every form of chinese torture unspoken and unheard of that will extract from you those words laced with lithium.)