Sydney Yount has a lovely cat. Her name is Bandit. She watches Sydney write,
paint, read, pace, dance in front of the mirror, cry, and most often waste time.
When she sleeps in her arms, for a moment, everything is right.

And after myself,

the neon flashes will do as always done before
and electrify the cherries falling down
the margarita stairwell into the cabaret's glass stem
to be held in a moment profound
before the night's curtains come close in

The boulevard is empty
the night's curtains come closing-in

The dancers' legs come to life
kicking at the night's curtains
coming close in


bubble juice orange scented
squeezed onto the porcelain floor
perfectly set
for us to slip naked
falling into the curtain rod

a mess we made

and the stars you waste

as the floods are parted
by your upturned nose
collecting in glasses
played by the fingertips of me

your lover

the cutlery is set
your hands in mine
between the grapefruit and butterflies
palms sticking to the vinyl tablecloth

A nursey rhyme from my mouth
and the words I can't seem to fit
tie our tongues around the wildest

parts of me

Grandfathers Funeral

Palming my chin
eating red polish chips
clipped away from nail beds
by way of anxious teeth

The ceiling is just brown
leaving much to be imagined
angels and chariots
by way of bruised paneling

White sponge cake
cuts and bleeds strawberries
by way of a plastic fork
to entertain my makeup smearing

Day-Break Fantasy

I roll my rolly up
behind my eyes is the image a fat lady
yanking my pony-tail in her hand

she spanks my ass with a paddle
shaped in a heart and painted Barbie's Corvette
color my pony-tail band


she lets my hair fall to my face

my lighter is too light in my palm
enough to put this chain smoking to a rest

I lick my papers
and think about her breasts on mine
and her pudgy finger on my lips

which of course
I swallow, with this smoke, whole

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