[PancakeBrah]

Pretty White Girls.

Marginal. Withdrawn, the void of effervescence.
Next. Succession. Barely buoyant, pressed against it.
Detached. The feeling embroiled in separate sessions,
unboiling. A watched kettle, toiling in desk professions.
The plots, settled. All statements null, facing the factless.
So spacious, the blackness. You're bent over backwards,
wasted, not knowing you're retracing your backflips
for disposable actors. On the spark, and how it died.
Another lark. Just sit and abide by this heart of alkali.
Logical lies. Watch; reflect on past crossing of lines;
the dull gloss is refined. The faux embossment'll shine
until it's all just a bundle of awkward, aprocryphal lies
written on parchment of white, forgotten. Disposed,
with porn as escape. Breathe in the rot of the cloves
nostalgia borne. The pangs of former gossamer throes;
formerly raked, now you willing walk through the coals
in fettered debt. Coloring your tone monochrome in beige
in every tete a tete. You've grown your lot in lone malaise,
honed. 'We' as estranged, with her goading exposition.
"You must love me." Probably, by the supposed definition.
But you could say the same about any pretty white girl
I've known and for which all my prose is written.