i dreamt last night of the port of edmonds of the poem you wrote for me in comic sans of swimming to india and getting into a fight with you next to the southern tip of africa i tried to give you the silent treatment but that doesn’t work when we’re the only ones who are drowning a league beneath the sea you can’t scream because when you open your mouth the salty sea rushes in and your last words are incoherent you told me once you had a thing for skylines and cities reflected across dark oceanic water like a parallel universe washed in colliding white waves and now i’ve woken up, or maybe i’ve fallen asleep and this bed feels too big for one person where is my roommate all i see are her drawings of eyes plastered on the walls and all the people come and go but i don’t think they have ever spoken of michelangelo so here i am with my fire detector asphyxiated in a plastic bag smoking cigarettes and flicking the ash into a magic lamp trying to cover my secrets with the smell of incense locke once proposed that we should have a separate word for every phenomena that have and will ever occur liberry (n.) – the way a book might taste if you licked the words off the pages.
if you’re looking for happiness you’ll find it between halo and herpes in the dictionary by angie lou