After The First Moment of Spring Already Happened

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“The world's a mess/it's in my kiss”-X

This is a shotgun, each letter is buckshot. No word is more or less shot; it's fucked in the keys that my fingertips hit and grind and lash at.

Bourbon, too

Piss coveted in the empty bottles already drank, stashed in the corners of this room.



and donuts.

A lack of diphthongs and diarrhea, stopped up with the fat and grime of each moments grimace.

I say,
“Eliminate the middle class

Eat your lover's ass, even if you're your only lover and you only have the chance to fuck yourself
This shotgun is hopeless.”

She says nothing

Nothing is said by her but sleep and snores and sighs tonight

We're alone, together, you and I

History imagined now is where I think she's at

Me? I'm here without the next thought, only the next word banged out before me
and a floor fetish

No shit! This isn't a splog or a polywog but a bog of a blog, which is a bloem

This one is written to fester

This is also a lecture on the beauty of being frank and a petite bourgeoisie, which could be a revolt against the Aristocracy of the American Dream

An essence of a sense-lumpenproletariat, if need be.

Or a fuckin' fuck fucked for fuck's sake

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