is the season for dripping fruit from open eyes.
stale sweat mixed with the fresh stuff
in a cyclone of ripe summer
makes me think of
slicing up your calves and eating them
for the iron.
tripping with multicolored birds
cannot for my life remember what we did with our bikes.
boiler room streaming
to keep the party going but
no one wants to do poppers right now.
fast on the bus as far as we can go.
everything is green
with little snails on your eyelashes,
tastes like the day I drove
with the windows down
not knowing a year would bring
and glasses left on the bedside table.
but now the mattress is on the floor
and made of volcanic rock,
it was afternoon, and I
saw your thighs bleeding in the living room,
closed the door,
and turned my car the wrong direction
down a one-way street.
down my spine
the sky is nothing
this drive is nothing
here is an empty convention center
with microorganisms painted on the carpet
space to move
I hate it so much when you die
so stop dying
rusting beams and
a sunrise to match
golden golden golden gold
let your hair grow
this is the tropics for crissakes