someone used my poeming napkin to clean up spilled alcohol so I had to use a folded-up piece of paper from someone’s backpack.

this is what happens when minds collide during an apocalyptic poem in a bunker of bro-ed out bombshells.



listen to poetry.

she makes me fear the future.

reader o split reader,

I fear life AND america AND humanity.

cocaine? heroin? ex? oxycontin?

Life? yes! she’s f*cking brilliant.

did she study latin or greek?

standing skinny drunk – whereishe?

do not worry. I think I know better.

these poems make me a little sick.

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