No one ever bodies to tell me any
Thing in my pocket does a better job than me of it I write to tell that I am
Not for me thanks. Two sugars actually but I brought my own
In my hands here all the way here from where I was to here.
Your kettle’s screaming about how terrible you are and also I probably, am.
Screaming and terrible with my black coffee I think makes me look like I’ve been to a museum.
My mother’s mother’s mother’s mother lives in a museum.
Someone she wanted to kiss wanted to see her naked and now she’s older.
My father was a painter for the insides of things and the outsides of models
The small ones that fight for all of us (fought)
Thought I really would leave those brackets closed. Damnable really
She wouldn’t have and I am
Holding up the queue. Stay, go, it means different things.
Everything about my mind is kettling
Perhaps cream would be a very good thing to be in my cup.
I’ve missed our talks we haven’t had. Luxurious
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