she left her cell phone cord

The phrase keeps slipping then catching in his mind.

He never should have looked at her Facebook.

more photos. it goes on for pages.

She couldn’t peel her eyes off the floor when they met.

Now she beams unashamed like Belle de Jour

for this popcorn eating cunt. Makes sense now

how smug he was that night. Oh we talked his new short film…

and 80’s bands. You know… boring stuff.

You like The Cure now? I will always love you.

Bladerunner. Like tears in rain.

Nice bio bitch. FUCK!!!

did she WANT me to read this?

her smug text *i can’t do this anymore.*

Don’t bruise your thumbs.

Your slender, sensitive, intelligent thumbs.

in that wannabe edward scissorhands looking motherfucker’s lips

…if only what she left had been soul sustaining.

Fuck they even look good together. She’d lost that cherub glow she always complained about. A dress?  It hits him

between rubber cement when she saw herself in photos.

Hollow Foal. Metal Skeletal. Both the new songs were about that.

*You suck and you suck and you fuck my head  sideways but it’s hollow like your heart and you will never swallow my soul.*

He told her that song was about anime. Always in a sulk. He sure could scream sing his metal into an overloaded mike Industrial Grunge Blues indeed. Poison Lemon is the album name? wtf

She practically wrote it herself.

*Do any old thing you want me to.

Cut my belly with a rusty blade.

As long as you drown,

and promise to swear,

you can Poison My Lemonade*

He complained about her having techno phobia.

Fine! If you don’t want my sweet ass unicorn drawings

to distract you from Skeletor’s stupid fucking drum arrangement, my shift starts at seven anyway. she lit a smoke with a tea light candle, she thought she was gonna come in the gravity of it.

little did he know, one beat away, how close she was

to spilling way more than votive wax

all over the studio, with shaking hands,

setting it back on the amp.

*You do the math. I write the songs.*

All the hot words, tedious dodges,

crocodile tears and spite, reflexive choke

coming back on him like fucked up acid. her bones

they were both like ninjas with clumsy hooves,

trampling affection, projecting dull envy and sloppy fear.

*Grouching Tiger Hidden Wagon*

It was funny back then.

No wonder she switched her major to Film.

He counts off weeks on his fingers in wicked arpeggio.

It took her all of ten days to fuck Popcorn Boy

The second he was up in Olympia touring the new album.

She had already swallowed the pill by the third chorus.

no fight. she left. She never gave a fuck for his ego

his subtlety, the esoteric trove he truly is.

*Go fuck a pit of vapid metal slags after the set.*

Often she thought maybe it would make her Happy

fuck it let go like. actually happy. for Him. for Her even.

happy if he actually WAS getting pussy after his shows

instead he gets wasted with his dick friends

running her up a pike like Yoko Ono.

There were times when it used to matter.

where now, all she ever felt fucking

was scissors and sawdust.

He’d come home feeling

strange & eat poptarts

Always a sour face.

I thought you lived for MUSIC.

He acted like…He acted like he was acting.

So insulting when she seldom made demands.

Sold out show again. Bruce made it. How nice.

She thought to herself,

if only the devil wood

make her pussy skyrocket

like his recent luck with music.

Another ode to procrastination. Not even a kiss.

Maybe so called patience is vice.

Impulsively patient, she thought,

working late on her socket cartridge sculpture

the fine line work on her new tattoo.

Swollen. Inside out.

She said she wanted it BLACK.

The cake stupid. 27 candles. Blew what?

Mixed nuts? Shaky palms. I’m quick to shoot?

My fault you snore? What empty canvass? Don’t even.

WE BOTH suck at lying worse than a fucking Eddie Vedder song.


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