the music I hear with him is the loudest base and
your story about puking in the back sea of a car
where the metal was blaring. but I hope you are
not sick, of my love yet. because these words may
not be the best, but they are not the last and this LOVE
that I used to have for you as a teenager is what kept me
smoldering. so, if these are the words I have to use them

I'll eat them. I'll take you apart. you'll be the best
(and the base) and they'll think you are fantastic and
star struck. (striking stars like spaceships piloted by
the dosed and the drugged.) but that music won't be
playing all night. it'll be late enough by then to call it
unstoppable. because I have been on ecstasy for a while
and you still called (like a lighthouse to my lost ship)
every night to ask me "wat da fuckk are you into lady?"

tell me more about it. I'm hitting the floor like
a wooden board, cumming out of the seat of
your sea while it is searing. striking all the desks
at the corner of the scene. those great expensive
places we sneak into to watch the lights dance.
(lights dancing is love making and the rich are
we, because the air is thick with our love)