'week-wristed'
i'm no messenger, just a sparkly light
wanting cinnamon sprinkled on buttered toast.
"give me a reason." i'll give you one:
you don't know how the first page
will seed the rest, how it'll taste of longing
cooped in a casket for a china-doll.
"her name's sally. isn't she adorable?"
and i'll confess i've always hated perfection.
it's so sterile, it's not me, it's a cemetery
of cobbled voices strolling in skylight silver,
dressed in soiled knickers, waiting, waiting for
a messenger who'll never call.
monday's come too quick. and tuesday's a whore.
I'm not really here. But what to say about myself? I love good writing. I'm a walking paradox. I. You. That. This. Woo. Look! *runs off*
What am I supposed to write here? My life story? How I was rescued by orcas and left to die on a deserted island with only a wrinkled copy of Dune and a make believe stick to comfort me? Sure, if that works for you...
In other words: Bios are stoopid.
Go fly a pig.
Or some such other thing.
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