supersarafu

The thought of you and I Is like a chimpanzee Shouting French at me, "Vous etes un singe", With each swing by. The thought of you and I Is like the measured laugh, The type the short giraffe Has learnt will fall From those up high. The thought of you and I Is like a lion at rest Trying to pump its breast For one last roar Or one last sigh.

dear you, i like you so much i want you to snake your arm down my throat and tug me inside out; bend down your head to my black eastern seagull and kiss it, find my liver and apologise. i want you to pluck the old snowflakes from my stomach and watch them spill across the pub floor. your hands can live in my jeans if you want. you can bite down on my fingers. life's for the brave, for the people who aren't afraid to say FUCK and drink bad beer. so i'm gonna get on this bus! i'm gonna shave my head! i'm gonna drink this tequila sunrise and crane my head to the moon like its your face in the morning. it doesn't matter how

I want to see you every day fuck you.

 + Take down the walls and try to find the pink bowels of your house. Squeeze your pupils like you need to, as if you are trying to squeeze a blackhole out of it.  Swim in the mirrors like you're in love, or on fire. Pedal faster. + Tell your melon coffee sweater to screw off.  Tell your mother I said hi.  Tell the particles you inhale to slow down. + Turn on the radio and listen to the politicians polish and wax. Tell Alaska she is not good enough.  Fire a handgun and look surprised when you do.  Inhale the smoke like it's  your mother's purple ashes.  Talk about

Don't let language screw you. You'll use it like excuse, but people bore you and Nothing seems new. So sweat it out, just grab your friend by the shoulder hug cry it out fists folded, out on the line, let your worries dry. The only way to live exists in the heat between seconds.

i’m just a little girl drinking wine and some man is breaking down my door. he’s tall and he goes to the lake every night to wash the pen ink off his hands and fill the spaces in between his fingers. but tonight it’s chest on chest on mattress on floor. voids are swallowed or maybe they’re just swallowing, swallowing the past half hour. and i ask him, “what now? what do you want?” he wants a twenty dollar bill, some dope, and maybe a kiss on the cheek. his knuckles went under my shirt and my stomach met new bruises. he said he’d be right back and i said i’d be right here. with my scis

paint by numbers and my writers block are having sex again. i can't do anything creative on my own anymore. we are scattered snapshots, disorganized, not in order, and i'm my own "out of order" sign on a bathroom stall door in a public washroom. my clavicles won't let go of my ankles. i sleep in diagonals and wake up with "i-slept-all-wrong" and "i-have-a-stiffness- in-my-neck-and-a-crick-in-my-back." i had intercourse with purity, i used dirt as laundry detergent, i slept with insomnia as my pillow, and this morning i ate my hygiene in the shower. tan lines were typewritten on my cheeks when i wore your ugly fingers. you

If you are looking for things to put vodka in do not choose milk.  If you find yourself wandering the house like a ghost, like a futureless cloud, do not choose milk.  If you are wishing for a vice. Wishing to smoke or drink or fight or slice or break. There is nothing in the world that will give you this. When your thoughts turn to the cold white virginal taste of another animal’s toil.  Do not choose it. Take the coffee instead.  The bitter brown sense of loss. Take that instead.