1 touch cigarette butts like how every star feels so real
meaning; enter a room and let everyone know there
are fortune cookies down the hall
2 look at your skin like it was once with shoulder blades
tensing up to a hundred records of Cohen’s tapes
3 hang your clothes but be simple; the first day
I wake up was just for a short time. If not longer
4 paper reads: I wish you a wonderful day (inserts emoji)
5 I want my day to amount to more;
6 your lucky numbers are 7, 9, 3, 1
7 Some cute things I want to do
1. learn to blush in front of a mirror
2. take selfies while sleepwalking
3. try filming a new dream
8 be found disappearing in the toenail of a comet;
still on fire with no end
9 There are people with drapes behind the sky
Concept: We’re sitting by the root of a tree and the grass is glowing about our feet. I have flowers laced in my hair and my heart is warm
not from the sizzle of weeping lava,
the smouldering of ignored feeling,
and not from the pulse of thick blood bubbling out,
bleeding across soft skin, but,
from the sun and precious books
made of comforting paper.
Her, my brain: why don’t you… can’t you… see this article… this man died today, was just shot by police… your vote makes citizenship… of me and them… our friendship is slipping… has slipped, covering the town in earth: people are missing… where are you?
Me: *sighs* idk
melting point and success
fairy magic and html,
fights subtly, not to be enmeshed in
apples and essays and
Instagram and oil paint and
she teases her soul from her chest,
although she tries not to
(mind you, the tears are dry),
and leaves it in places she’s never been
and with people she’s never seen,
Will they fight with her?
It’s the least you could do…
And I ought to take a bite
of this peach. I ought to dare,
but just because I’ve unlearnt
everything in relation to you,
or to them, my heart still trembles
when I think of me in relation to them…
or you… Or you,
when we have violets
in our hair.
Sometimes, I feel it scraping against rib bone
and I learn
why they told us that we feel
from our hearts,
where our bodies are constant,
steady and sure,
and not from our brains,
where we are soft and squishy,
and where tissue is made
of little more than concepts.
It’s a shame they lied,
I misunderstood for so long,
let my heart and brain become
one… I like that about me…
but, me, or her, and me, we…
ought to be,
considering the girl we were,
so much more than
neurons and red blood cells.
I know this must be strange for you but don't be afraid. I assure you this is all perfectly logical. “Well then”, I imagine you’re asking, “Where are the walls? Why is there nothing but empty whiteness and this collection of filing cabinets that stretches as far as the eye can see? Huh?!” And I can see your breathing becoming heavier, friend. I can tell you are afraid. Just be calm. You are in my Catalogue of Stupidity. Bup Bup Bup! Don't say a word. Shhh shhh. Let me explain.
When someone is disabled or strange looking (and I’ve been born both) people think you are stupid. People think you are beneath them. Even the people showering you in what sounds like empathy do so while crushing you under their feet. They patronize you. They think you're weak.
Every instance in my life where I was talked down to this way is alphabetically recorded in these filing cabinets. Isn’t that neat? See how far this place stretches. Squint your eyes. You can’t see the end of it can ya? “Is it wise to hold onto all this like this?” I hear you asking. “It seems unhealthy to cling to all this stuff.” You might say. “It could breed ulcers. Hatred”. Well, fine sir slash madam, I'm glad you asked. I catalogue all this so that I can know when I am being talked down to. Sometimes it's hard to tell. People will sound like they are complimenting me but if I cross reference their words with the words of this database I’ll discover that wait hey, they are patronizing me! Their honeyed words espousing my heroism and bravery are no less pitying than being talked to like a child. I won’t let anybody's pity slip into my subconscious. “Oh.” I see you saying. Oh indeed. Here. You need an example. I’ll let you sample a bit of the catalogue. It will be fun! Here, here is the S section. I'll close my eyes and pluck a file out at random and….
Santana Muzak 2003/November/ID No. 56824-387
My tiny arms bulged against heaps of heavy dishes as I pushed the busboy cart into the washing room. I grabbed the spray wash hose off the hook and while I rinsed the dishes I made a mental list of all the songs I wanted my friend Andrew to burn for me. There was this new thing called Limewire where you could pull any song out of the clouds and put it on a CD. It seemed magical to me and I couldn't stop dreaming up mixtapes. Maybe a bit of Linkin Park. A dash of DJ Sammy’s Heaven cover. Oh and Michelle Branch. I started humming if I want to I can save you I can take you away from here as I pushed the dishes into the dishwasher and leaned against the hot aluminum.
A muzak rendition of ACDC’s Highway to Hell crooned through the restaurants loudspeakers and the cooks shouted and swore in the kitchen. I didn't understand why the cooks were so angry all the time. You'd think the smooth sounds of Kenny G-ified rock hits that constantly wafted from the restaurant's speakers would mellow them out a bit but nay, they yelled foul language and banged plates and threatened to disembowel one another.
Ian, the other dishwasher, who looked like a youngish, more trailer trashy version of Henry Rollins, barreled into the washroom covered in brown oil.
“Fucking grease!!!” he said. I knew he wasn't talking to me because he tries not to swear around me. I ignored him and scrubbed a scrambled egg infected plate.
He threw his apron into the laundry basket and grabbed a new one off the rack. Steam billowed from the dishwasher as I opened the door and set the plates on the drying rack.
The muzak shifted to smooth jazz Whitesnake and I heard Ian regaling the cooks with a profanity laced Tale of How Ian the Brave Dumped Out the Leftover Grease. I drifted off into my own world again. This time my mind spun through pixelated hills gobbling up all the rings in sight. I started to get dizzy from all the loop-de-loops in Green Hill Zone as -
“Could you handle it ok while I was gone?” Ian said, rounding the corner. He made sure to talk slowly. So I could understand.
“Yeah.” I said. Perturbed that he had scrubbed away my daydream and eager to go back into my own head. But if I’ve learned anything from being alive it’s that most people don't like it when other people daydream. They want to talk. Incessantly talk.
“It's not too busy in here for you is it?” it was a Wednesday. It's never busy on a Wednesday.
“Good! Good job!”
He put on gloves and began scrubbing the plates in the sink that were too dirty to put through the dishwasher. He bobbed his head to the musak.
“You know who this is?” he asked.
“Santana. And Rob Thomas.”
“Wow!! That’s really amazing! Who taught you that?”
Snow Guy, The 1997/December/ID No. 63564-096
I found a porno VHS tape in my attic. It was buried in the box of my stepdad’s crap that he forgot to take when he left. I had to show my friend Razor. He was an authority on these things. So as I was getting ready for church I stuffed the tape into a pillowcase and then shoved the pillowcase down my pant leg and tied it to my belt buckle with string. I made sure to wear my most baggy slacks. My mom said I looked ridiculous but I told her baggy pants were The Cool Style. She was too tired to argue with me and we were running late for the service anyway so she let it slide. All through the service I felt it bouncing against my leg, its triple xxx branding my outer thigh with I don't even know what. I wasn't sure what exactly happened in a porno. After the service I hustled to the vestibule caught Razor by the arm and said I just had to show him something hurry hurry. We huddled beside a dumpster behind the church, cradling the VHS tape in our hands. Pretty ladies made funny faces on the cover that I had never seen anyone make in real life.
“The ladies are really pretty.” I said.
“You sound like a homo.” he rejoined.
“Little girls are pretty. These are Hot Bitches.” he said with authority.
“Ah!” that didn't sound quite right to me, but I deferred to his judgement.
“This is a good one too. Wet N Wild 14. My Dad has this one.”
“So like...how does it work?!”
“Well, you take out your weenie and start rubbing it while you watch.”
“That sounds dumb.”
“Just do it.”
Ladies in fancy dresses strolled by and gave us funky looks. We beamed our most God fearing smiles. They beamed back and smoothed their dresses. The church was starting to empty at a rapid clip. I had to hide the tape again and fast.
“Just make sure no one is home when you do it.” he said. “They get mad.”
“I dunno. They just do. That's what they are for.”
I stuffed the porno back in my pants via the (devilishly ingenious) pillowcase.
A man had stopped in front of us and watched us intently.
“Oh shit.” Razor said as he bolted away.
“Hey you-” I groaned. I was in deep trouble now.
The man strolled up to me. A light snow fell.
“Little Gregory!” he said.
“How are you?” he raised his voice an octave like he was talking to a baby.
“Um fine. Just fine.”
“Oh that's so wonderful!” he said.
I didn't know what to say. I was eager to go home and try the weird things Razor explained...wait what did he say to do...rub...rub your weenie while you watched...I still didn't get the allure. It seemed stupid. I was eager to try anyway.
The old man opened his palm and let a few flakes land on his hands.
“Do you know what this is called?” he said.
I didn't have a clue what he was talking about.
“This is called snow!” he said “Isn't it pretty?”
“So Special!” 1994/July/ID No. 24509-889
I was seven or eight or something, strutting through one of the many street fairs Middle of Nowhere, Pennsylvania is so obsessed with. I plodded through the packed street with a large, purple teddy bear slung over my shoulder. I was on top of the world. No one could hurl darts at multi-colored balloons like me, boy. I reached up and clicked my hearing aid off, and the screaming kids and drunk adults and high pitched whines and bleeps and bloops were muffled into something more akin to gentle ocean waves. Now I could focus on my own inimitable awesomeness. My sneakers pounded against the pavement and I was lulled into a trance by the muffled noises and the night sky decked out with lights. God could I chuck darts, son.
The world was peaceful.
Sparkly and shit.
I saw someone hidden by shadow, leaning against a tree. Its gaze didn’t leave me. When it stepped out of the darkness I saw it was a woman dressed in baggy, polka dot pantaloons, a red afro and peeling face paint.
I blinked and she darted closer. She moved farther than a human being should be able to move in the span of a blink. As she crept closer I could see the pity and ignorance glistening between her gobs of black eye makeup. Heeere we go again...I thought. Before I could figure out a last second avenue of escape she was next to me. She flung her arm around me in a death grip so there was nowhere for me to go. Her breath was stale, fetid with bleached holiness as she looked down on me. Her eyes were shrouded by the ferris wheel shadow and her face throbbed with the light of the tilt-a-whirl. Her lips trembled with pity. I felt the jubilation seep out of me. Yep, there it is, all my old happiness and contentment there on the ground in a shimmery puddle. Sir! Don't step in my joy! I’ll need it when this clown releases me. I hope it releases me.
“You're so brave.” she said, without preamble, clutching me closer. The over sized polka dot pantaloons billowed around me, wrapped around my nose and mouth like plastic bags. I struggled for breath. I tried to shrug her off but she was too strong.
“I just want you to know that you are special, ok? You are so so brave, young man, and Jesus loves you. Jesus don’t create no mistakes.” I wonder if she knows that by implying that Jesus didn’t create any mistakes when referencing me she is clearly hinting that I couldn't be faulted for thinking that I was a mistake.
By then I learned to just humor people when they think they’re showering you with empathy so I tried to be polite. To smile and nod. The trick is make them think they are having a deep, lasting impact on you. Then they will release you and you can resume your regularly scheduled life. So I said “wow thanks.” But this didn’t mollify her.
She grabbed me by both shoulders and whipped me towards her so I was forced to look into her eyes. I guess I wasn't compliant enough for her, not rapt enough in my worship of her kindness. Her fingernails bit into my shoulders and the flickering lights threw the long shadows of her fingers across my back and they danced like aggravated rattlesnakes, so so ready to pounce on my throat. She hissssssssed poisonous platitudes into my ears and forced love to spurt from her eyes.
“You are so special!” she said through gritted teeth-or was that a smile? She clutched me to her chest, choking the breath from my lungs. She hugged me in silence before finally opening her death grip and releasing me. I gulped down the air and ran into the crowd clutching my hard won teddy bear to my chest. I was terrified that she'd followed me so I peered under everybody’s legs and saw her waving into the darkness. She was confident that she'd touched my heart enough, that even though she couldn’t see me, I was waving back.
Wait-hey, where are you going? You can't possibly want to leave already! Stop running around like that and beating on the cabinets! What do you mean “I get it, I get it ok?” We've barely even scratched the surface! Hey hey! I promise I will take you home eventually, so calm down! No, there is no exit. Only I can get you out of here. Do you see doors, friend, or walls or anything but crisp whiteness and endless rows of filing cabinets? So why don't you just sit there while I regale you with more stupidity from my life. No I won't go through every single one of the cabinets with you. There's too many for that! Haha. If we went through them all that would take… well I guess it would take as many years as I'm alive wouldn't it? Woah woah don't lay down all dejected, you can't be bored! That's not nice! You can't possibly be sick of this place already. There is so much more to come! You've only experienced the tiniest sliver of my life!
Three cold suns
eat red stone--
full and rough,
vase plays with absence
behind cold glass.
Outside the sky is old,
night is orange,
you give me a mitten.
Earth offers herself--
bowl as base creation:
hard hands cupped,
condensed tomato soup
waver before your lips.
hewn to hold flowers
and soft warm spaces.
white dream mountains
Cry songs of old dirt,
forgotten nests in eaves.
The crows hurt my ears here,
praising mud and
sweet leaves and
quiet shining things.
October is cold,
the days feel like scrambled eggs.
They say, this is not incongruous. To my taste is quite pleasant, though. Such colors are spread in organic environment. Wrapped in raisin elegance with the brand new thirst. Cannot afford. Still late to early pretentiousness. Wandering around that bleached, remember it in purple juice! Streamed away for fertilization of new ethereal sprouts. No expectations, ripening by touch, the gazes are vanishing. As if in jest, with bare steps on serene day, the plisse folds flutter. Hardly touching the paving strewn with pollen, scarf flows after the emerald lisps. Whatever unknown bites have turned into forgetful with a bloom of fragile amethyst. Where did he get that disgusting chocolate jumper? Should be silver now. Fragrant apparel weaved from lacy peonies with strew of spice of smiles haggard with confuse. This scent has no age. Put it on and wear the whole day. Everyday. All year round.
1. Tell us a bit about yourself. What inspires you to create? Where and when do you feel most comfortable? Who or what inspires and influences you?
Stereoprimitive! Yes, you are! Finally, I have the voice. Isn't it fame? Thank you, Sea Foam Mag! It is only the 4th interview, yet, I bet they are already controversial (I should probably start to encript secret messages in the interviews)! Each time I dig and manage to bring out some gems. Kidding. Only intestines.
I'm a genius, who isn't? The force is a curse, inspiration - voluntary prosecution. Since very childhood I was quixotic, allergic to practical stuff: messed with colors to invent a new one, staged a ghost puppet show, walked on stone surfaces and picked up dry insects for the sacral beauty sake! Same shit, different day. Still collect rocks from my habitats to whisper the stories when I move. Comfortable? Seriously?
2. Where do you live? What are some significant traits of your surroundings (geographical, immediate and/or environmental)? How do they influence you?
Everywhere and nowhere, literally. The plan is to settle down. As an enlightener, I carry my luggage of kilograms of magazines, wreckage of conceptions and essences for the coloring. I chase the opportunities to grow and contribute (when I have a visa of course, my origin comes from the third-world country environment, and being a freelancer doesn't add much to the stability). Almost every encampment leaves a scar, vine stain on the mind-map, wrinkle or sketch and bouquets of stereotypes to work on (carefully fold and dry them, gently dissect afterwards).
3. Love the description of "Overage". Is there a personal feeling or situation that you can relate it to? if you had to describe it in one sentence, what would you say? What do you hope viewers take away from it?
So far art was produced by humans - it is infected with personality of the author. The series is the incarnation of an outdated pattern. It is not only about trendy-brandy fashion, mostly about aging and conversion. I collected several herbs to grow mould on them, extracted them with oil, and only then composed these collages, took pictures; the original is gone. Quite ephemeral (mail me for the protocol and on my 100th anniversary you can make such an installation). In one sentence - watch your petals. It’s all in the posture, liquid elegy I would say, the image appears as retro to us. Have we overgrown them? Is it just a memory? Whatever the viewer can find, poetry or bacteria - that’s the feed!
4. Are there any recurring themes or messages in your work or is each series its own message? Why?
I don't create collages*, rather meanings. There are plenty of pics around. The high mission is to invade minds with ideas, inject intracranially. To share the aid, to overcome the borders, frames… cages. In my case, visual aid. I’m still concerned that decoding is available only for sighted. Somehow my method intertwines with the digestion and appetizers. The common thing that is easy to approach and communicate through it, two-way as well. Look at this juicy lemon, smell the refreshing zest scent and oops-poops! *Lita spreads to various mediums - author's note.
5. How do you feel about the future? What are you hoping for from it, tangible or intangible?
The curve of marshmallow beaver tends to replace the agender cockroach! No one knows. I'm fine-tuned, empathic. Can be split into 10 engineers - too much vibes and impressions to distribute. Jalapeño-woman! The hot filling. The future, huh? Scared as a lady bug and calm as a stuffed seal - either fly from bloom to bloom or enjoy digestion. As an artist I think it is time to establish a holiday - "in honor of those who did not kill themselves" (according to some statistics, creative field is the leader in suicide rating).
6. There is no question (Lita just wants to throw up a word on the routine). Have you ever seen gipsy plumber? Street chemist-jugglers? Programmers that beg you to read the code from your palm?
Whereby musicians, actors, artists are the ambassadors of culture, the future heritage, prestige. I elitistically starve and my loan is close to a medic or layer student one. The buns and a good slut are always in need! Nowadays these "follow a dream speculation" just messes people up. Follow the common sense and save up! Artists are totally out of the system (even in Finland, one of the most civilized Nordic countries, the article in local paper said that only 3% of artists live on their artistic income). Welcome to the bloody shows where you can not only entertain, but also learn and suck from the energy share!
Creators produce unique matter – Archimedes’s principle (he may be not a real person, anyway, people love fairy tales) could be discovered and, for sure, would have been by someone else. Authors’ ambrosia is unique!
7. What is the most beautiful thing you can imagine? And the most unpleasant?
You`ve seen my creatures, I can imagine the whole universe. The question is sweet, thank you for asking. I suppose, the cocktail of beauty and disgusting that we are surrounded by: pinch off a piece of flesh, grind an amethyst, shed the light that pierces the ocean, leaf of melissa, acridity of pineapple, greed and bacteria on the tip of a knife. Leave to infuse.
—delicate earth finger, still foolish?
Yes. Deep February soil, cold and
forever, seeps into heavy-needled
fingers, it is headed the inchworm’s
way. Slick-headed baby empties its
canopy, sapped in vomit on its journey
to the bottom of lakes, it seeks below.
We watch it: the body eat the light,
sweet bark becomes turned over,
scraped from the feet of birds, who
no longer eat fish. Their leftovers
given to the gods of snow fallen
lakes, the submerged mudskipper.
Watching slow legs scramble in
their walk, the ice-sky falls and so
does the light, a comet tail of hair
is lassoed on arthropodin corpses.
Do we know where the light goes?
—No. The cold front is stuffed in
the soft gut, violently—to satiate
hungry organs and eyeless faces,
with napkins sewn of algae and bone.
POSTPARTUM GROCERY SHOPPING
I buy a head of butter lettuce. I sit
at my kitchen table, dissecting
leaf from bulbous and velvet
stem. I shove loose heads into
my mouth, the farther in I go, the less
alive it all seems.
There is a carcass on a leaf,
a bug. He ate like a king in
a prison, his jailer a plastic
tub. I eat him too.
The lettuce has circular abysses as I move
towards its center, the functional holes
provide airway for my tongue that is
gripping soft green bone like paint thinner,
hoping to shrink its body, consuming its
I tuck myself into the refrigerator,
next to mason jars of pickled
children’s breath. Outside the moon
glares in to touch my arms, I want
to whisk its nocturnal yolk into
my gullet, I hope to devour
my son back into my ribs, his
vast body emptied like jellyfish
bile on the beach where his father
proposed to me. I wish I could have
said no, if only to protect name-filled eggs
A thought came to me once--that I could be an American.
I could be an American because once, I got a gold star.
And the gold star was for numbers I’d earned, words I’d strung together
Almost effortlessly, I think, because I could.
Once, I used Chinese as if it was a country and told myself that it was,
You put a hyphen between Chinese and American and never really know
What it means, or what it constitutes of. Sometimes, the color yellow
Isn’t just the color of your skin. Sometimes, the color yellow is
The sun, a banana, leaves in the fall.
I think I could be an American because once, I played the piano for hours each night,
And told myself that this was my dream, because it was tangible,
Not abstract, like the images of Harvard, Yale, Princeton on the walls
Of my bedroom, where I wasn’t afraid to look at it and think,
I can do this someday. I just wanted to achieve great things.
I just wanted to go west. I just wanted to score higher,
I just wanted to score a little bit higher. You know,
I think I could be an American. Because once, I learned about work ethics in APUSH,
It was the notion of American progress, so as long as I worked hard
So long as I had my number, my absolute value,
Maybe, it’d be enough. Maybe I could be red, white, and blue.
But then, maybe not--
You put a hyphen between Chinese and American,
You never really know what it means.
NO SNAKE OR CURE
a 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 NOIR
September 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.
I begin the day in a cave, blink-blink-blinking the darkness out of my eyes. It takes me twenty minutes to work up the momentum to exit. In those twenty minutes, my deer friend has also woken up. She does not sleep in a cave but rather, a meadow. Bathed in sunlight, filled with flowers. We stand side by side as we brew our cups of tea. Green for her, black for me. I get distracted, and mine ends up over-steeping. I gag with every sip but I finish the mug.
/ / / / /
I begin the day curled up inside of a shell. As soon as he hears me yawn, the snail who lives there asks me if I could please leave. He has to get to work, which is here, in the shell, because he works from home. Some kind of freelance editor. All day, I leave a sticky, pearlescent trail behind me. I am craving salt and vinegar chips.
/ / / / /
I begin the day heavy. Under my eyes there are pockets, packed to the brim with every thing I have ever done or said, everything that has ever been done or said to me. Whenever I blink, they flood my the screen. Replayed at the wrong speed, slightly warped, overexposed. I am dense. A collapsed solar system. A black hole. Out to wreak, out to ruin.
/ / / / /
I begin the day on an island. Desolate, save for a lemon tree and a very nuanced collection of records. I am running low on supplies. The night before, some sweet dumb soul had tried to save me. To build a bridge connecting me to the nearest land mass. I stomped and smashed and screamed and set fire to the rubble that remained. “How dare you!” I shouted, kicking their cement mixers and their cranes into the sea. “How dare you!”
/ / / / /
I begin the day hideous. Raw, peeling, decayed. I want to scrape it all off, but I know well enough that there’s nothing below, so I set to work covering it up. Rubbing and smudging and patting. Liquids and powders and sprays. A slightly sticky exoskeleton in shades of beige. Empty, save for an inch or so of stagnant pond water collecting below the ankles.
dumdum lollipops globbed w/ rotgut
melt them w/ yr daddy tongue
spread them out
glassblow them &
I will shape them 4 u:
pearled skull vinyl cherry
candied aorta glossed w/
bite marks & thumbprints/englobed in yr glitter
do u remember when I dreamt
yr cock was a flower & it blossomed
into an asshole & then I woke up
& yr hand was in my mouth
u liked it so did I which was why
I started crying
when u talk yr mouth becomes
a froth I wanna swallow
swerve it around my mouth
& spit it on yr eye
I will put my mouth on everything u make
if it means u won’t talk 2 me
what I meant 2 say was
party party all the time