I tend to judge the wildness of a night

by how often you say bitches. There always used to be

a car, at least, on fire. There’s that obsession

with morbidity: I’m fed up with poets today. Spell

megalomania. Spell acquiesce.

You pretend to be all hardcore

but you’re just a bruised apple. I escaped

to buy toilet paper. Mine is reverse-cycle.

How fucking dare he make us fucking feel

this way? The abstract noun

of a concrete noun. You had the mushrooms

last year. I’m not sure if it’s a changing

of the guard. That’s overzealous

cleaning, anyway.

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