Bumpy corpses of
words on the back of my tongue...

We are a couple of
starving artists...

DISCLAIMER: This is my response to T.S. Eliot's...
they don't know the first thing about you...

The strangest bits of you are
the most attractive to me. I remember...

Gloves
with fingertips cut off...

I watched you trace
skinny lines of sinew on...

I want to try.
When you tell me I can't I only...

It's a powerful feeling
to possess waves of a yellow...

It's like breathing in tin foil
when every breath crinkles and spits...

Our grade school sometimes smelled of popcorn.
We caught the warm and buttery scent...

Your face is stupid,
I retort, hiding behind my own face...

Poetic diction
clouds my mind until I can't...