Happy Big Head Studios

we wake up hungry

dying from

dreaming illegal dreams

uncaught, of course un

confessed.

 

from here to here

is life and

family and

you say we’re only half

way through but

i don’t remember how far

we’ve come

 

and in the night there

are

gunrooms, beers, and

honeysuckle coconut ginger

cilantro and lime

desperations

 

and how exact are

your calculations how

could you know that

much how do you want

me to bloom in

to you

headmachine

 

we wake up hungry

dying from

dreaming illegal dreams

uncaught, of course un

confessed.

 

from here to here

is life and

family and

you say we’re only half

way through but

i don’t remember how far

we’ve come

 

and in the night there

are

gunrooms, beers, and

honeysuckle coconut ginger

cilantro and lime

desperations

 

and how exact are

your calculations how

could you know that

much how do you want

me to bloom in

to you

another round
you: the doer
me: the drowned
at least it ends now

at last we can
wow
i would a drone
an order outlast
the crowded backseat

we owned that rude
defeated the shifty-eyed
atlassed and rounded
droned it walked down

in wooded endowments
and redo
your adored me the
dew downed or wooded
you drew from my fingers
adorned in molasses

You befuddle me, boy-child. When needing, alone, a picnic I imagine your offerings to sandwich-cut or basket-pack, your blanket folding skills much superior to the kids’. So along you come, strange, swaying, swooning me, woozering with boozebreath. And I recall that the kids’ breaths are cinnamon-sweet candymeat things (because we raised them oh-so-wrongly). They are starshine eyeballs, they are tearstreak cheeks compared to your pathetic holdings. That’s why little ones take first priority, because they reek of innocence and their stances and grumbling throatsounds let me know that I’m their mainthing. The words that drizzle from me can’t convey you, though, and all is and must be lost. Even the slowstretching babies, their soft smells fading into a simple luminance of life in parks without you. They will only miss you until they forget, and the same goes for me. Every ounce aching for… what? I find that I am disregarded, doodled much better in felt-tip.