Films.

I want you to be miserable like me.

I’ll hide your cream and pretend he’s mine,

Steal his long words

That made us so unhappy.

I adore your tarnished lungs,

Sluggishly inhaling boredom.

Caged in wild melodies,

I ate the key and forgot.

Three in a madman’s attic,

Rummaging through overflowing beige boxes

That tasted like pancakes and old bathrobes.

Silky ectoplasmic flesh,

Electric like his father’s stanzas,

Verses of wisdom flew like doves

And his mutilated larks.

Softly outspoken and

Spent.

Caustic lichens reveal your

Amoeboid excuses,

Forgotten as the tide gulped them down

Like moribund, growler cakes, silly and tasteless.

Projections of sweet celluloid images of sweet ideals;

Sweeping proboscis lunges out from his body

Protruding, Infringing,

Selling pageless books on the side of the road,

Gasping fanatically beneath embalming helments,

Absent-mindedly kicking coffeepots on our way to seclusion,

Led to believe in joy at bus stops and romance,

Typed angrily on plastered buttons,

Clicks of misunderstanding,

Horses and carts in mixed up orders and hums

Of hazy jazz in Roman notebooks.

I'll write you off.