little belly

the light
long left
the sky

strange music on the radio
this room she is soft now
she is softness
she is soft

it’s been years feels like years
since i fell since i fell
since i fell

down on my bare feet
light in my head in the kitchen
for the coffee for my meds

first i heat some oats for my soft
my little for my soft some oats for my soft
my little belly

down on my down on my
down on my luck maybe
so maybe so

there’s a kitten
there’s a cell phone keeping warm
beneath my little circle of a warm a little

where’s my other lovely?
the orange one

i have to hold onto something
i have to hold on for my chance to
come my chance to come

waiting. walking through the sunset of a memory
the orange one where oh where are you?

feels like years since i awoke
it’s been months since i got myself up
on my own

across the way i see
a single flower in a bowl in a window
a still life on a window sill
life it looks peaceful

then fire trucks sudden sound their way
a fire in the city. you can really hear
the engines when you open your door the engines roar

I get a change of clothes
fold them over my arm
carry them to the shower

i gotta go to work
no matter what

I am thinking of you
and how i loved you
and how you betrayed me

too dam bad
oh well. i gotta go to work
no matter what you do you did
me wrong

The water cool then hot the steam
I pull the elastic out my hair you called me plastic
you don’t care. too dam bad oh well
i got work to do and i give a dam
i really do i really cared about you
dam you

My hair is full of water full of steam
I look down and see look down
and see my belly

I don’t always like my belly
but tonight I do

I love you little belly
won’t go away
no matter how hard i try
won’t go away
running and stretching
won’t go away
working you sweating you out you
won’t go away
will you?

I love you
little soapy belly
I always will you
never said nothing you
never did nothing
to hurt me

The 18th bitch i met

This is dedicated to the eighteenth bitch i met

by Katya W Mills

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.