Signature
I have not wrote of you in a while, because you are undeserving, because I clam, like pearl, in ocean sweat whilst they expect they wait
for entertainment for Halloween on a Wednesday in June You are neither and nothing and all tasted in the twisting tidal stomachs of the anxious, the knowing: tastes like digested skin and living thin.
I do not write of you But I deserve letters stuffed with self portraits of me, who is me? I am me.
Every time before and hereafter They sing
'But
__ seemed so nice'
whilst I bewilder in sand Do I not seem? Do I not need? Do I not sound sound of mind?
Niceness...
I won't write of you I will only write of myself in relation, biscuit shaped smiles baked in memories of friends, to help choke the me down despite lipping the poison.
I am here,
I was there,
I will never go there again.
I have not wrote of you words have not wanted me to sentences recoil at any trace of truth - how do you manage to sign your name?













