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whatever what the fuck. i’m with rimbaud we don’t give a wut. i go to the beach and i fuck i fuck the beach. okay whatever we’re fighting. every girl in this world thinks, the arc of the moral universe bends toward me. a shoe full of cement. its curvature judicial. if you pop my bottle. rimbaud at the beach & he’s gonna shake me. & the models are gonna hate me. otessa in my city, what the fuck whatever reading. all the other models bottling. people are not stupid and afraid. people are not awards for writing. another year we’d pick gauntlets & piss missives. punctuated with a crossed blade. dead generations weighing, mama’s bottle tasty nightmare on my living brain. & i was made to fight every place across the landscape of this poem which is uninterested in lying. sudden and sweet. like candy. when my bottle pops shake me.
Dead moon jelly
scallop the beach
& i’m drinking, a condition
skewing into street
displacing sleep. as a child,
i tried to fly
yeasted deleterious & laughing
emphatic muteness of bees
group life is psychotic
a flock of geese
pulling water into a barrel
under gathering sun
you float there, in the curl
the sea’s expulsive lunch
to communicate your dream
you started screaming
drifting, so like a sail
tracking when shit hits
the real, do not disclose
& do not enact its unzipped
composure, gasoline gull
covered in water
and ashamed, ambition is insane
& insanity a refusal to summons
on any day
mutable, like breathing
like laughter parting beneath a leaf
canvassing rapture
he’s vulgar
i’ve been a feckless wheedling dimwit
ripping ulcers
tonguing my asshole weeping
skirt up top down
on the freeway, a silver convertible, weaving
and flipping, missy! being a private
person was never really an option. it’s a brand-new day
& you are the bourgeoisie of communication
a disorganized state, infant
eating pastrami in all pink
wet & inflamed, the color of latching
leeching in my brain. you say such ugly things
immer in der Schule going blah blah blah, never learning
IG: @boredgeoisie__
