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your breath smells like gumballs; that makes me horny.

i will pull your skin over a streetlight and inspect it for flaws.

don’t look at me. i feel weird.

i donated my organs provided that my large intestine (undamaged) would be used as a snorkel.

my friend died in the toilet.

she had an aneurysm while vomiting and drowned face down.

if you don’t think about something during the day that almost kills you to think, you aren’t real.

i ate a peanut butter sandwich in the shower this morning.

sometimes i think about random facts to make sure i haven’t become a completely different person.

smell the doorknob.

it smells like my hand.

which smells like your face.

which smells like the ground.

which smells like what i’ve eaten.

which turns into you.

i will fill in my trail.

no one will find me.

lay down until the earth covers you.

i will own only the column of air above me.

i like to pull weeds from the ground and throw them into the street. no followers.

this day is mercy none. i eat with no thanks.

burn your hand over the stove. eat the pieces off it until it’s just bone.

hold my hand. let’s take a bath together in that pond. i don’t mind that

it’s cold. i don’t mind those green, floating things.

i will bring soap made of soft skeletons.

i would like to cut off the fingers from my right hand and replace them with

all pinky fingers. i would wave the fingers and my hand would look like an underwater plant.

i am willing to pay up to five hundred dollars to have this done by a

relatively competent doctor or finger expert or even someone who knows what

an underwater plant looks like so

they could be like, “yes” or “no, that doesn’t look like an underwater plant.”

i make shitty paper airplanes. they don’t fly they just hit the ground.

i lay on the bottom of the lake and blow bubbles.

i put a piece of paper on my desk and slam my hand into it until my hand is broken.

when the moon spills, sleep in its belly. in a womb finely threaded. in a pink hued swamp kept body-temperature.

i am embarrassed that I know even one celebrity’s name.

the bigger I grow in your belly, the closer you are to death

stab down every idea.

i am a cripple turning rusty keyholes.

mine and yours.

sleep tight.