Export: Writing the Midwest
Cinqo de Mayo Unrest
In the morning
I pissed out the stars of last night.
The night is a lot less enchanting
When it's steaming
In the toilet bowl.
You are the beer I bought last night -
Making me clumsy,
Unlike warm wine gulp that was slowly replaced;
The difference between
Sex I want
And sex I can get.
The pink walls
Are gloss flowers
Working in vertical and diagonal lines.
You said you didn't want to fuck
In case I was dirty
But the wallpaper in your room
If I opened your letters
I would be your prostitute.
The cost of stamps marking
The worth of my attention.
And it may be killing you,
But the letters that used
To reside in my left coat pocket
Now pile in the corner
I could take your letters to bed,
Reading your desires like commands,
Guilt stricken return address
And awake feeling dirty next to torn
Envelopes like used condoms,
Spilling out the ink of our dirty night.
The frightened attempt to r'seal
My innocence coats the sour taste of glue
in my mouth.
It is the fear of perjuring myself
To a night of your words that
Leaves your letters unconsummated,
Shaky hands' writing screaming in the corner.
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