that time the man on the
cellphone
shouting tore us
out of a sweaty summer
not sleep
and we fucked before climbing thru the window
(it felt more like a john hughes movie this way)
fan blowing old german grandma whispers
over the cotton poly blend stuck
to a 20 year
old
ass firm and damp
summer’s humid
air invigorated by cigarette smoke
we don’t grow old here
we wake up and the stampede of history
mocks large pored babes
spending years at the neon bar
an obsessive misfit
(christ wasn’t around yet)
sand grains between molars and
turmoil amongst morning
sweaters
back thru the pane
shudders under moist
weight but ultimately
presses our bodies
back to the monument
and beer breath
and synthesized blood
and the late train
