hunger hurts

my appetite is growing. i’m walking down shoreditch with an apple, cigarette and a dream. i’m hiding the truth from all the people i love because it’s best. i know what’s best. madame de pompadour told me what’s best. i hate men that are too cool to dance at the club. i hate wall slugs. i hate leeches. i hate performing. i hate having to look people dead in the eye to connivence them it’s ok to say a real sentence. i hate a lot.

in between the whimper of a dog and

the squeal of the stove, there lies a gold

tooth

so shiny it bloats in my mouth,

it makes my words big and hollow

it makes my tongue paltry and pale

i’m too tired to speak of myself, no more “i”.

we shall speak of you

you are just as sleepy as the day we met

eyes filled with grocery bags, falling to the floor, tears made of frozen onion rings and organic milk

there’s ashwagandha in the creases of your lids and one must wonder how it got there

does your tooth still hurt ?

does your ma know your here?

i can improve my aim

fuck i fucked up, i keep fucking up

everything is “i” and everything is me, and you are getting lost in between.

okay, there’s the animal you lock up at night

does it still whimper in the dark?

is it the horny dog?

the one that fucked my foot, yes it probably is

i suppose that you know how i feel about this.

how gold toothed dog is just a stupid metaphor for how sad we are.

how unexplainably miserable we are, how we cannot use bigger or prettier words to express this sentiment because it is dreary and it is sodden and we are dying.

goodnight angels