hello monday

there’s riots going on all around the world, and here i am writing about shit, fisting and pieces of meat.

what’s a riot though, without fisting??

a tiny poem for tiny minds, i mean.. hearts,

gaping holes and tattered gloves
holes becoming bigger
more then the tiny tiny tiny
swimming through, but tightly fitted
my breath feels warm you say?

deeper deeper my pops receding
into soft soda or beer, sounds different

cunt smoker

i don’t know where the end goes, she said, stumbling over her words.
smoking crack until 5 am in bathrooms* with sigourney weaver plasterd.
my dear, my dear, i guess we are all here still.  caring and becoming
becoming patterns and tiny lines, lost in edges and words, because words , . .

my father will have a beard, i won’t have a home but a closet filled with facial
expressions of confusion and and. . .

sitting in computer with waterfall, behind my back and in the front in the beginning. my eyes are tired but not too tired, to smile my tiny orifice, the one that no one knows about but everyone always wets the mat before. . .

*(streets &&)