my Sunday afternoon: tic tac toe, soy flat whites, floral head wreaths, rainbow coloured gelati and a polka band. nice work if you can get it, indeed.

O, the days of wild abandon:
of vanilla cigars & gin & juice
of honey dripping off your body at night
and ants in the sheets come the morning light

of hoisted up in the shower, twisted & sudsy sex
of breaking the soap dish; not seeing through the steam

of grilling summer peaches for lunch & letting them char & letting them burn
whilst roaming hands went where they needed to be

of having
                 and wanting
                                        and having again
                                                              and again

of the first precocious kiss you planted
of the first name I wrote (it was yours) in the snow
of our initials carved at Coney Island; witnessed by the freakshow & the sand & cotton candy & the boardwalk of our future, good intentions


of soon-to-come growing, great dividing distance and ever increasing melancholia
of jealous tongues of lying teeth of lips imparting desperate, vitriolic goodbyes

of wanting it back

                             -if only taking it back,

                                                      and wanting it back again
                                                                             
                                                     
                                                        and again.



-The Frockette

this reminds of the time i spent at an Ashram. My heart wasnt't healing right when i kept tearing out the sutures. but the harmonium did soothe me some. waves of sound hitting me in the dewy morning grass amongst the praying, robed strangers

i like that she prioritizes monogamy over marshmallows...but perhaps only just.

—	Charles Bukowski