you're going to be around? don't
feed me that. I've been hungry all week for
sex. but none of them mean a minute of my time.
a line out my door and I think they're all bores.
truly the Hemingway is stirring in me, or perhaps
crawling across the kitchen floor making statements:
"wouldn't it have been sweel if it had all been perfect?
say he stayed and that moment at the port never
even had to happen?" but this, isn't about that.
I'm not knee high in sigh or sick but in sea water.
ocean stew, crustation underside. certainly he can
say it louder. "all the fish in the sea mean nothing to me!
I caught a great whale, brown eyes bright and mine so slowly
I belong to only one." but those speeches are not allright
it is not okay! okay? my buildings are crumbling!
I cannot win the war. Admirals and cameras all halted
at the bay of the beach, near the beginning of the
birthed breezes. they are told "this land is dirt
and we will have it.". ownership transference in war