brand new balcony

let's get marrowed

dreams not talk, but I have that fresh air

 a fan blowing around you

I dyed the pillowcase blue

it's so pretty now, it looks like cloud springsky behind those little blue flowers

it's funny my immediate intentions were

 to send the pillow in the post immediately

 to pillow you

 but I got greedy

 and wanted to roast in the gone-scent

it's funny, I wish I would have 

 a non-pillow

but I've the bedding to change

because we're never rollin in the club, here

closed ∞

  get yer coats on, take the shit out of me

  the balcony closed even to girls, now.

over the winter the sparkleporch, attached directly to the cougar den which is the vip lounge of gayulz club 

  closed to men

  not because we're inherently sexist, here at gayulz

  but because boys in the balcony ruin it

  make it dangerous

  it just took two bigbodied slams to unhinge the thing

  and it became girls only.

it's like the balcony of the club parked in front of Kyle's

  balcony party

  girls in the back

  like six chicks deep

  could.

I like memory

  it's like a bite

  or sometimes a cut or a bruise or a break

  then a veil

  and a thin little blood vessel

  or a juicy foods

but I'm digesting at every turn

and ingesting them all to marrow me

hardening the arteries of my softbod

the uncut fruits of our little labor

my waste is quieted

From the early morning I toss around, considering arise and a flow of me into day. The black & white animals surround, and I, limbs askew on tiny bed free, awake. I don't have obligation to the telephone, or to the doorbell. I have my own rose portals, portrayed through a door and the dog, I prey, won't sound a cry at the basic intrusions. They live all about, quiet as gnats, save when the fruit grows foul & the flies move, multiply. My sun shivers, my sound shivers in an isolated building's edge kind of way, like the glimpse of a glimmering skyscraper scrape against the blue back of a day. The backgound, and in it revs a distasteful engine. And mine own engine in it's revolutions per second, imploding high to headache heights. Piercing the sky. Mine own revolutions carrying me so. Bite me, we do.