twilight from doctor gossip

Grease which a skullcap covers is the feeling. Stalking the waves and servers of the old for reassurance of the shit and the gutter. And I can’t remember the right words and god I hate when I can’t remember words. I will never be like Barnes who Winterson and Eliot liked and downright admired. And jesus, I’m sick of feeling and talking about the undersigned, the sundry. So let’s play a game:

Do the twist. Fuck in the morning and man-make the lake on the bed with small islands. Bask until the third alarm and I stay to rub my face. Thin walls with nothing active inside them, but she hears us and asks us to quiet. We turn pink and things harden. Lean over french poet cause I can see your butt crack and its sapping you of all your authority. Your author bio is silly. Is that what you want people to think of you? Overserious and warm mid-forties french poet? What? Ok now jerk and splay and actually contort because we’re playing that game!  Grease the skullcap so it slides, so it leaves thin residue on the hair and back and bent over butt crack. Now slowly palm the unnamed flowers from the worst shrub on campus and consider the nature of drug. Consider him smoking weed again and what that would do for his constitution. Tell him it wouldn’t be good and encourage him to be good. You layer your words in grease. You get hungry so you melt butter in a pan and mix it with cheese and milk? What would you dip in it? A sinuous protein of some kind, most likely. You’re eating ham again and loving it. Grown up Mary Jelly Girl, have you considered the night? Have you considered the night by its division from day? From twilight? From dawn?