i miss you.
i like being your short list.
my feet are filthy and cannot be washed clean. it has been hot here
and i've been busying myself with suitors and sordidity. one of them
tells me he showers every 3 months whether he needs it or not, and
always lights my cigarettes. the other put me in a choke hold and
threatened to break my arm after writing me a drunken letter.
they both require my affection as i am acquisitive, tireless,
tenacious and cannot be shaken away - to quote whitman. i'd rather
quote bukowski but expletives rarely polish as nicely as songs of ones
self, and everything hemingway said was a preamble to a suicide note.
one day we'll go kicking cans in ketchum and show those mother fuckers
how it was meant to be done.
all of my entrails,
evil.
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