unite like a night train unites with the night

september and we were super together and you were natural like a farmer to me you were a farmer and i coulda been a farmer’s wife with a farmer’s tan and your name written in raspberry juice up and down the curves of my chest and we would not be smiling all the time dripping with honeymoon anymore, for seconds maybe yes, but mostly working and class and working our ass off and classes with glasses cause i don’t see as good anymore gettin older, i guess and history looks a little different behind us if we were to look back upon the vistas without falling into it. i would rather fall into you and what you are doing, the hours behind a wheel of a truck, the 12 hour days or doubles, and yes i am single still, are you? if i pull with my arm will you blast your horns? shine your light this way, my love, we could unite like a night train unites with the night but the day will come when we see things for how they really are and would you want me then would i want you? i love you now and you care about me and that is a tasty concoction with shaved ice hoping not to get crushed at the foot of a celery stalk, melting the summer suns into autumn.

Advertisements

The 18th bitch i met

This is dedicated to the eighteenth bitch i met

by Katya W Mills

katyamills.com

Her props preceded her. She was basically dictated over by her fucking props. No joke. I will bite your beats! she announced to the world. She came into the world as  truth, got spat out as fiction. HTML underlay all her diction.

Wait, let’s react more slowly, like formation of rust after a rainfall. Slow down our pace. Curb all our progress. That bitch was on fire, like ice. Well, not that fucking hot even. Breakneck Banana slug pace. Break out your fuckin’ mace. Spray her like you mean it! Her accessories are a tugboat and some backup singers rockin’ granite over her lip-synch. Her shows are perfomed on skates, in a skating rink. She’s on thin ice and she knows it. Her toe socks are counterfeit.

There’s such thing as a deadline, bitch. Uncross your buns and feel your tits. You need a media moment or your history. A none hit wonder if you’re lucky.  Zero airplay. Audience captive.  Held up like hairspray. You’re as close to urban as Truckee. Census 2010 was sixteen thousand, like the crowd you hold hostage. When you open up shows like sardines, canned and caustic.

Every night they get xuded just to feel numb, you’re semi-entourage. Wasted on air guitar broomsticks copped from somebody’s garage.  Just to feel numb. You’re shows are best absorbed best by the deaf, blind and dumb.