I rather face the fact of sexiness existing in this world.
Every CEO to Marketing Chief to Graphic Design Artist[me.moi.]to Former MIT/Harvard Wiz-Kid.
We’ve probably met if you’re over 60.
Hey classmates ;P.
Something stupid like that on our old secret cogs of interwebs communications.
Bunch of lameasses if you ask me.
Hawaiian Punch and crocky cooky wookie chocolate chip cookies for the allium-ante movie.
I love bullshit!
We all speak in prose-y-woes.
And it never gets sadder than to admit defeat.
I claim Mediocrity + Mundane.
Mine. Dibs!
What sad bitch are you going to be today?
I’d ask many a rich-man only vibes.
That’s all ya know about him.
So enigmatic.
Everyone looks so polished in their 45 year old wardrobe.
I thrifted mine back.
Bust the seams or buzy the bees.
What other tarnishing does one need in life to admit they’re miserable?
I love that about you.
Held down that vibe for half a century.
Wonderful.
The same glismaldismal petrichor swaft of a basket case being impersonated by a lamed-prep.
Old cliques and fashion and the world is odd in the grandkids’ generation.
I suppose it was cutthroat around here growing up everywhere, and only a night back felt weird.
Take it to the kitchen. Too many Cooks!
I’ve no idea anymore what that could mean.
Other-
Tweak-
Ramblings-.
Is all I could summose onto suppose.
There is no other honesty in collaboration.
Writer’s Table has moved elsewhere in these days it seems.
Closer than ever, in all your lies.
8:28am.
And yet you linger.
For me to sort bolt nuts.
Or coax
Some writing out of me.
Before or after the workout.
Or rolling in the dirt.
To get further away from you.
Just a few inches, to breathe.
Claustrophobic these days.
Better than ropes, your arms are.
Can’t even find you in the night to give you kisses.
Every lad like a goddamn plane-view in tapestry.
And I’m the landmine they’re protecting from watching out of goats.
Oh no, it’s treason again.
You wish
You could.
Sell me,
Again.
petrichor - archive 