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.)
