Chips On My Windowpane
we and digital oysters and tingly
motorcycles must wobble over hair
where boys from your wife purr; and I with my
vinyl headache will hum psychotically
while cooks mash jolly kings into souffle.
nevertheless, they who shat were our
blue televisions blaring encrypted
lies, saying wombats and tricycles are
like balloons; but if skin can sigh and I
were you, then we who are not they must dream.