First time sucks. Your heart
stopped,
your breath—willow-wisp
gasps.
Yeah, yeah, we all know it
hurts.
You feel like bird fodder,
flower seeds that passed
through acid juice
and meat grinders
on a non-stop route to the
butt of all bad jokes.
I really like plate dahlias.
Congrats, the witch-doctor
gurus say, this is the point
where your otherwise
pointless life began! Screw them
(in all things except blood
oranges and pomegranates of flame).
It’s all a gambit to make
money.
Don’t cry for help, little
girl.
Superman saves only in myth,
and unknown to the rest of
society,
happy endings are never
really bliss.
Jellylike trails on the road
left by human sliminess obstruct the way.
What does crying change
about the fact
your first love was a jerk?
So what, life chugs on. CHOO
CHOO. Don’t get run over
or your body will break,
forget your heart, it’s not
that vital anyway.
Just man up already.
There are plenty of toys in
the sandbox and
trees in the forest. Here, I’ve
got a million of these,
so take my axe and start
chopping.
A good fire always solves
cold feelings.
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