“Books were safer than other people anyway”
-Neil Gaiman

I’ll take the hard corners
of a good book in my back
under my covers
over the fleshy resentments
of a worn out love affair
gnawing silently through my ribcage
any night … every night.

He drunktink tinked his sloshy glass against
liquor bottles on the front hall sideboard.
He called them “decanters in the fourier”

It was the entryway to his tract home
his rented tract home
his rented tract home… in Texas.

Pretentious Fuck.

Pretentious Fleshy Fuck.

He wrote a few selfie novels
many years ago…
thought they were open ended
festival seating all access passes.

Nothing like getting cock blocked
by Don Miguel Ruiz, William Hudson, James Frey… Oprah…

How was it for you?

Did you feel it
way down in your fourier?