free meat on a suburban street

By | 13 October 2020

Special thanks to Vale, the mentioned friend

oscillating from

disassociation to despair

i try to write a poem &

i can’t

so i read abt vultures puking

& shitting on an NYC couple’s luxury condo in florida

& how one rogue neighbour kept feeding them

whole roast supermarket chickens

that relationship to chaos

is intimately familiar

i try to write a poem &

i can’t

& instead lie on the sofa

& watch six episodes of love island

& fall asleep & wake up & find

a perfect crop circle of drool

sometimes the poems

come to u

it’s been one of those weeks

where i’m so busy, far too busy to

cry cinematically in the shower

or dramatically on the floor

or luxuriously in my bed

which is quite frankly, not ok…

life is like being slapped in the face

the responsible party shouting


as they walk away

flipping the bird w/ a perfect manicure

i wish i could be as useful

to the world

as that cult Maybelline mascara

but my long-term infected tragus piercing

is a reminder that my body

takes time to heal

last year i thought

everything was


the truth is

everything has limits

pressing inwards

like a stern finger

it’s like a chronic chicken shortage at kfc

it’s like wearing ur best gown to the met gala

& getting locked in the toilet

a friend told me that

her mother said

flowers are condensed light

& that’s what bodies are

& that’s what feelings are

& that’s what you & i are

& that’s what this world is

& i sure am

going to miss all of this light

when it’s gone

Return to Tell Me Like You Mean It volume 4.

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