by Travis Jeppesen on April 22, 2016
Surface rumble is my fucker giraffe.
To be an austrian so lightly.
Can you touch/fall apart the sky?
Oh to be bi.
To fuck a goose and not be afraid.
Aren’t you inside me not and then what the hell.
All different flavors of ice cream – yeah, that is something to really get bisexual all about.
But then the goddamn sun it wouldn’t quit shining, and so I shot it.
Shot it so I wouldn’t have anything to do.
The goddamn sun and its minerals.
Why can’t you face it (what is only seeming.)
The light forecast fell apart right over the bog, a child’s voice in the tetherance.
I forgot how to have an ant.
Do you want all misty-eyed to rot the tomato version whose blanket furs.
Grant to the distant iota.
The way paper bag shivers.
Shivers in the lightning rod’s dim virginity.
Whatever night meant before it rotted.
I got on the ceiling in order to imitate a fan, suddenly all was mediterranean in its too-night sheen.
Aren’t you bothered by the feathers, she might’ve asked me.
But reverse snobbism cool-window’d out the hopes that populism weaned.
And zeros danced on the balcony to christen the devil buddha’s fried crispy remembrance bra.