MORRISSEY
IS UNREAL
SMITHS
SMITHS
RAH RAH RAH
ON YOU,
I LOVE YOU.
how can I even do words? except that Other People Being Incredible is proof that it can be done. Moz my life just now.
come, help me photocopy my zine
in the library.
down beside the microfilm,
replicate with me.
come, let me use your copy card?
only for this last bit.
with automatic page detect
we make a perfect fit.
come, although the toner’s low,
come, let’s take a chance
on inexact perfection and our
A4-duplex romance.
and, like, I’m into you in pieces and never to your face
(or rarely)
a clumsy kind of love, or of whatever.
“I got things to write.”
a clumsy kind of whatever.
a high to ride and crash on.
you were my second-fondest memory.
whatever.
so my workshop portfolio is a collection of zines. because it doesn’t count as work if I ever ever sleep. wew!
that part of the floor that’s warm, even after the sun’s too high.
disco nap
Death from Above
draw me foxes, roll your eyes
I’ll hate how my inks are setting—into and out of everything (and all over my fingers)—and just glitter all the things.
rubbish helicopter
being loud
all in my airspace
it’s like every person in the world is either bearded, or smoking.
I feel hard. or thoroughly. s’why being mad pomo mofo is so fucking ironic. agency in thought, or reality in feeling—whatever—it’s my construct. I’m not down. but lately, I can’t get past the poetics.
it’s revolting: my poetry is revolting. I drown in poetry.
s u b v e r s i o n s s s s s s . lately, I want to be fascinated.
