grounded—
feet pressed to tired earth,
simple land i’d stumbled upon searching.
and yellow, the butterfly’s wings,
woven from linen,
simply push on.

but there’s an itch tag playing at my neck.
i don’t much care for peace, do i?

think i’d rather a cold beer.
poured sweet through my lips;
my corse hands upon your narrow hips—
kissing you madly at the bar—
probably snarl at the man across the way,
not from instinct,
but as antichrist,
that unsane twisted freedom
we subscribed to.

it was our lithium.

-

tomorrow morning.
let me yearn for peace
then.

when the headache
splits me clean down the circuits,
as if the bumblebee buzzing
around my ankle electrified—

—

when did you grow so tired of me, love?