now i want to have him for breakfast

no patience for the living
and only guilt for the dead
is it just my ego
preying stealth minds as excuses
for vast ineptitude
in day to day matters
like toast and grass
kindness elusively put down
crinkle edges torn tin
wanting not to make those same words
that slay brave knights
on the all night streetcar
relooping though
actions are completed
encapsulated
the tv of each memory has a different editor and mine's a fucking bad sitcom
with a dead leading lady
full of soundbytes and confessionals
digitally enhanced carpet
darjeeling , love?
it'll never happen in a month of chrismases
breakfast is for normals
on sunday
oh god, the phone again
no i don't want it
pushed into my life
like toothpaste out of a tube
go AWAY
FUCK THE GRASS!

i'm going back to bed
fuck the toast too...