picnic no. ii

she is the cat curled on someone else’s sternum and i— am trying to write an abstract about us the absurdity of the self, punctuated by the incessant ticking of the clock our time has nearly run out

western civilization is not beer it is red wine straight from the bottle on a sea cliff the smear of her red lipstick on my lips as i dive into the ocean

hysteria, unaffixed unspecific in its discontent she strips me of my earnestness as i buckle her shoe-straps around her ankles.