“three pages
down
and eight beers
to go. hmm…
i drink alone
because i sing
secrets…
three and a quarter pages
down
and seven beers to go.
Bitch.”

'what?
k, i'll try.'

there’s no way
this can be taken
seriously
with desperate lines
and rare rhymes
in between
my pouts
and over proportionate
frustrations
a contortionist still
painfully bends
backwards
to ends
and means
to cripple
how my lips will,
with wind blowing
itself impotent,
be justified.
did she fall yet?

'what? more you?
geez.'

in texts
she cried to
fibulations
never her face
only unoriginal
fetid symbols
on the screen-
cherished for knowing-
knowing this type
and font-
are breathed so easily
to be from a gentle
and nonchalant
coven of deities
that are the digits
of her.

for she is made of
goddesses stuffs
and magics
incomprehensible

‘there, happy?
now leave me alone.
and grab me a beer!’