THE OPEN MIC CYPHER

[Wise Wiggles]

woke up this morning with a fat bitch
goddamnit it happens. fucking gorgeous
bored of this static. poor little fat bitch
acting like its more than a habit
throat-fucking her adorable mouth
this fat bitch like four hundred pounds
just put the grocery store in her house
filming porn on her couch. oregon style
every fat bitch in Portland is down

[Split]

im the record holder, insominiacs anonymous. Holden meets Salinger.
cradle cough in train exhaust, from the wake of this wanderlust.
I faced a blunderbuss, 12th gauge, closed case sarcophgus...
not entirely accurate. In tenth grade, my destiny manifested in expanding
a dead fleet of...essentially imagined, members of my family,
so I could turn homework in the semesters sporadically.
See.
I'm a handily amateur collector. fantasy manager, expanding the annex first:
Of not every lie I've lived, but those others give away or desperately sell.
It's drugs to me. Vicodins, Dramamine, codeine drops, amphetamine hell.
Fighting the night thin, dozing off in honesty, pupils centering
at ceiling plaster Mona Lisas, doodling an elegy.

sleep paralysis.

she's tone deaf to my notes. musical love letters. Imogen Heap meets metonomy,
she's a tough nut to crack. or bust, truthfully. got me drunk deep, sleeping sloppier,
dredging breaths. cuddling carress of Boston's sludgiest aquifers.
bleed, mon ami. sewer breath. do or death. it's funny, talking to her...
silvertongue, quickerstep- mix and match: gilded slipper, hottest bitch off Cinemax...
Ten of ten, cold shoulder- sitting back, base level on the mercury thermometer,
To test her waters, tense hope- read chromehex on the Walgreens spectrometer.
try again

but yo.
those home testing kits make you a lonely old pessimist-
not a phony though, ladies and gentlekids. I digress, but I don't.
paint me your pyrite gold: black and checkered faded red,
swapped the labels on the cans, dried into a flaky coat,
catalyst of my bastardly inadequence, a dying breed,
I'm the patron saint of bratty kids, finding sleep,
without their Madeline or Paddington, just an Ambien or three
and waking up to a crowded bed, wondering while we feel so spent.