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A variety of fools bolt soup to judgment
through a straw, beating a field as exercise.
Sweat beads oxidize, a favorable ideology,
contorted architecture sex dream, what’s on
the menu dribbles into a cold sunset.
A sense of hurt splashes, conviction wastes
away, distributed along the coast. False
damage is like a television. The pool is full
of apples, too bad we threw our heads out.
Morning eaten alone, with only the news
and a fistful of random words to throw
at headaches. What was missing: fresh celery,
and the plot to drive the car into hurting
myself. All flexed and with dead eyes.
Spooning the hemisphere for anything
to fill orbiting stomachs. Everything is blue,
and settling in for the night.
We hang like a masterpiece, joints quietly
suspended in deep night noise. Sugar burning
at both ends, flakes of light transplant to
our mouths like seeds. What was cool? I don’t
remember.
Twitter: @hello_im_logan
