NO SNAKE OR CUREa deluxe bunker a fake suburbia under flamingo summoned and summerdone getting your hope in the bloodsuckers crushed between pages these poems devoid of cicadas the house on the lane filled with stained glass and red-bearded frackers. I tried to be nice, let you know they were starting the witch-hunt paisley bodysuits and soft teenage palms black knee-socks I’m backing away-- When the California sun began to take my hair I pulled it to platinum planned nights alone days in the grey bedroom with pills. He said he’s become the corpse-flower concubine the hopeless hanger-on his home a long closet. We got off the bus in workboots swung around the tavern missed the parade. Food wasn’t worth it. Neither were lilies but I wanted to cultivate something to stay I wanted a girlfriend to give me pink streaks and touch up my spooky black roots but all that I do is wait in the linear when it will dry up like my skin. I sang my best songs latent and dazed in a lace dress with drug money. CRUEL SUMMER HAIRLOCK NOIRSeptember winds bring witch hunt the acorn scent of piss gets me sick of systems. He kept me in the basement called me Ecto-Harlow brought me out for nighttime blonding breedloving at the beach. Black roots were in style and/or neutral armpits. I like it better in the blue car or handcuffed playing records and sucking off the paperboy or menstruating on a Thursday the toychest full of moodrings a blemish on my left knee a purple choker thick with fringe. Not enough bleach sun and untreated words still wet but extra ambien and dirty boardwalk roller skates and like we used to say at limbo how low can you go? How low can you go when this is too much content cockles red giraffes a patriotic thong not an ounce of fat and she looks like a swimmer and you can’t revive comfort. You fish. I cut duct tape keep breaking in my boots I seal my friends and cape away like the bad old days. I thought I’d find solitude in a black and white plaid apron among consenting adults in plastic suburbia and dark slot machines. The recipe wanes and I sleep, don’t burn leaves. The clouds are too big. Fleas love for warm bodies. The clouds knock my teeth out. I just want to be lipstick suede and surface and maybe the birds use my bush for a nest before I descend to the underground bunker. ✱✱✱ 
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