: sometimes of whom you can't distinguish but,*

public art

beat me to the root.

burnt my tongue on

something hot.

not pizza, but like pizza.

if i dream of you
but it's not really you

we're usually gathering in small, familiar crowds
huddled around something exciting

like public art.

sometimes a song will do me
a favor by serving my most private stories
back to me, raw.

every lyric beats me to it
behind my closed eyes.

*K. Vile

: goodies at the bottom

it's not about the taste
the temperature
the touch

it's all texture, baby.

time takes its time
time and time again
again we go against

the thickest hour.

i don't hurt you on purpose
sometimes it feels worth it
to watch my life end in your eyes.

: if you got aim

forgetting to remember something
because i don't have the itch
the form is not fitting
fuck the poem.

miscellaneous bruising
tight muscles and torn hamstrings
those are the memories
i force.

and then there's this
finger spit
cold drill
putting letters into feeling
mailing them off
to be forgotten.