Ribbed Valentine

And so now you know. Like someone who goes through a city at dusk collecting cat shadows, you can't be a surrealist that way anymore. Whistler's Flak on Flak (I want my Crayolas back.) Or knees on knees. "Let's play a game called Angelic Disappointment," Shelley said to Mary. Before coaxing into anal sex. I meant coasting. I meant coaching. I like Valentines to exhibit heavy firepower and prophylactic sorrow. Your retarded cartoon lares and penates doodad my gibbonish world. You sniffy-lop left and right, straight and gay, just like all our other cunt curt chimeras in the No-Doz Homo Depot. See, I have your bloodthirsty inventory of sexual Herbies. You scream like a hawk over a Motel 6. Who else could be so jealous of a supernatural plagiarist ape pilgrimage? Talking with my favorite past versions of you right past you feels rather like being a nineteenth century naturalist. I pick up and set down your narwhal ribs in a very precise order. In the hidden parts of a museum. I listen to very small children on the other side of the wall, screaming and giggling and dreaming of murdering their parents and stealing every single thing they no longer want to be of the world from out of the world.