firstly, no, i will not keep calm and carry on
there are too many actualities of presence
in my way and lord knows we are perishable and will.
i beg of you honesty in earnest and i vomit completely
at the steps of your etsy shop when you tell me
in peach pastel paisley on eight by five with lethal lace
that everything will be fine, don’t worry. i worry,
does your set of water colors with brushes dipped in fancy
include the shades of want or regret or rent or
day in day out life long terror? you know shit.
while you were cupping cooly a mustachioed mug of
colombian coffee on graphic designer carpets in
graphic designer jeans next to your never-semen-stained eames,
someone, saccharine and soulless, stupid and smirking,
excreted this phrase at me: treat yo self.
So I did: promethazine, codeine, white wine chaser, and
twenty milligrams of melatonin; what a lovely gift
to myself to combat the stretching minutes and or
In a coma I saw her reading Carver on Chinaski’s grave, needlepoint platitudes abound, that robin’s egg blue dress, twisted mountain lines that heave from her chest.
This is living?