TEAR DUCT ERUPT
The most cliche poem about fucking containing one "good" line. Try and guess which one it is. There's a dance, well maybe not quite a dance... more like a juggling of sorts, between two things, thus meaning most anyone with half of a half of a sliver of a brain could pull it off. But not like us. It takes practice to work up a sweat. And afterward one of us lay atop the other, my body still gripped to yours, we beat together, as if communicating while our wetness hushes the room, and we're left to wonder if this is what it's all about... that had we been quiet like this in the first place: we would've heard that they'd been whispering like this the whole time.

*

A homely, homeless woman
perfectly manicured with a thousand balloons
Stands next to, almost inside of
A girl in sneakers and a glittery jumpsuit
crying over love lost, a touch of a ring

beat a dead seahorse
beat a dead seahorse

I bet you cry
and today I go unbathed, just like I promised,
And I'll still paint my eyes black with white
for the funeral, and I'll dance to the songs
I'll walk to Pioneer Square, I'll walk to the coast
And beat a dead seahorse

All of us here, before the sun,
Waiting for wheels, and some relief from
The constant agony of dragging feet
McDonald's before a 7:00 AM flight
Detrimental always more convenient
You could have brown bagged it, sir
You look like you could use some yogurt.