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more drunk than i have been since the time i drank a bottle of clear birds with a girl named cooter. i was 16. i didn’t pinwheel my body this time, just wagged my tongue between my lips. the fist of summer is in the last week i think, it’s like in movies. everything has happened and this is what you’re left with, this sets the tone.

i think i’m going to be moving into a house that has this beautiful wooden table. it’s large enough to roll out and laminate croissant dough. i’m very scared right now. this is why i don’t drink. 

sleeping it off. always.

the only thing sleep doesn’t off is miss

Dream Song 14


Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.   
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,   
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy   
(repeatingly) ‘Ever to confess you’re bored   
means you have no

Inner Resources.’ I conclude now I have no   
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,   
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes   
as bad as achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.   
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag   
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving            
behind: me, wag.

gay shame