In the gluttonous dark, stars carry on like they’re on a trashy talk show. Cool air painting everything black. I paint the world hot pink. Together, an erotic charge. Now he puts his hand, the paddle, his eternal boatness on my chest, and I restart like the old Windows 98 computer my parents owned before I knew deceit. I can’t yo-yo and philosophize at the same time. But I will tell you, as I Walk the Dog, that strange things prowl in the duplicitous dark. Desire, my fanged name, pain. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Miniature Moon 