I Was Dead When I Woke Up This Morning

Play. Don’t do right.

Tactics, rules, retaliate,

deductions and make heard.

Make it heard.

 

Once, spirit was a thing,

Coco Pop real

and I cherished skin tags

like design label lipstick.

 

Now, teams are numbers’ games

and I add up better than Duffy,

any of those super-good

word-people.

 

Because 5 is better than 4

and 4 is better than 3

and, target, I eliminate you

when you’re 15, 5 or 50.

 

Mess with me, fuck, I’ll

obliterate you

and discerning language

about you winning. Chance.

 

You’ll never fucking win this

You’ll never fucking win with me here

and it’s the good of somebody

at the stake. At stake.

 

The mistake I make

is taking advice

from someone’s authority

and again. I do it.

 

What I didn’t want:

impressionable knowing

rejection’s a package deal

in this life.

 

But they know it now.

There’s no saving. Not. Just

retaliational penalties and

“I’m glad you didn’t win.”

 

I’m glad you didn’t win.

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What A Wicked Thing To Say — You Never Felt This Way

When we kiss, there are people watching, but we don’t get a kick of it the way women do in Crash, and men. We’re not the sort to give snatches of our webcam selves. We wouldn’t sell a photograph for money if it could later incriminate us; you don’t need much evidence to destroy teaching careers, marriages, pop stars’ lives.

And these people, watching, are those that could take empires down, having lain in wait for at least eight months, or maybe just four. They’ve cried themselves sleeping, wondering if they’ll get their lottery shot, cash advance, salaried job, finally.

But not everyone gets what they wait for, pay for, pray or wish for. Not everyone gets their fucking wish.