Eight stars make
A soft solfege
Above this motel
Where there are never
I let a skinny man
Put his long thick dick in me for you
So we could break our hearts
The way you want me to. Somewhere a white
Wall stretches up behind the backs of a tribe
Whose obscurity protects its secret from the common
World and the connivances it ordains.
What time is it. What season is it.
I don’t know.
The moon blows green
Gas into my skull
I want to hide what I dream
In a big boot, and wear the boot
And starve as I lean upon the boot of my destitution
The truth as a gimp would drag the weight of her body.
That would give me a feeling of honesty.