you think like me

and find holed out solace in

a quietened

Futurama dvd menu,

sleeping in cartoon static

jokes that are too entrenched in meaning to unpack

doubled over falling over

the night is over –

home to the dancing clouds

next to the jungle stage, your reasons for being here

               dressed in furs and drooping pupils

are demanded

your answers are too honest for the cameras

your words too cruel and i can’t not laugh

mateship predicated

on mutual, unironic appreciation

of post-grunge music –

“you must have been

the lamest fucking teenager”