Sinkwater

facescrath oxycoton syndrome, sinkwater for breakfast. the sounds of backfire car motor spit makes me jump and dunk for cover. cloudcover. the sky is so fucking dead, I am almost feeling good about tonite. I am almost as big as I appear under your microscope. bedbugs ate all my dreams last time I slept in your bed and I go a good-night snooze for the first time in years. I'll do another trick on my bicycle and wrote circles around your journals. I'll compose the longest and most complicated piece of music you have ever heard. It'll probably remind you of the first time you got fucked. I'll make you a salad that you wouldn't be able to eat in a week- until it's wilted. no wash, no santitary. no sanitarium for the sickness. no fear of flys on the fruitbowls, the walls, trapped- stuck on the fly paper. No more homework to take back in your knapsac. Sunday is reserved, sorry I'll see you next week, or the next, or the next. Bring your stories as I have more than a few to share myself. Go home and remember everything you tried to memorize before we met.