I’d tit-tape you to stay. But a sticky technique is romantically risky; I’ve not undone a shirt since 2004. Then, I got dumped every 2 months, at bus stops. I was a kiss to recoil from. You recoiled from.

So I’m tit-taping you, cutting ex-wife’s reins from wrists and severing ties to her children. This is not a developmental issue. Her molasses are silicone chrysalises and the kids belong to potent scraps of chat room fuck.

I tit-tape and it’s a bung job and every first is hers to lord and she bought your Morrissey shirt from a jumble sale at a church, mumbling self-taught curses in deep slurs, a baby’s gurgle. And she said she was Lilith.



I wish I could be indifferent to your eyebrows. I decipher days depending on how you smell and I’ll make decisions in a snap just when you think I’m persuaded. Remember you’ve never won, even when you think you have or actually have. A win is a second setting you up for bigger wants you’re less likely to get. Not everyone achieves what they set out to or think they deserve.

I’ve never been indifferent, especially when I’ve wanted to be, which is the point really. I wish I could be completely indifferent. Instead, the immerse of the day to day is like a dinosaur shaped cookie cutter to the belly. This thing’s got teeth, claws.

One day I’ll wake not caring what you think, who you fuck, what you want next, supposing there’s anything left you could want: Madonna’s surname, Lady Gaga’s vagina? Until them I’m complicit in caring. What’s another word for disgust?