Hotter than a witch’s tit in hell

by heytherewildflower

Since all my shifts got moved around, it is now set up so that I live at the restaurant on the weekends. weather forecast: 100s four days in a row.

hotter than a witch’s tit in hell in the kitchen, i tell you. NO I WON’T MAKE YOU TOAST TO GO WITH YOUR BREAKFAST, GOD DAMNIT, DO YOU KNOW THAT TOASTING THINGS MAKES ME TOAST EVEN WORSE, YOU FUCKER. try the ice tea. its unsweetened. just like me.

in other news, nothing is happening. and im going nowhere at the fastest pace possible.

besides this little thing I call “MY BOOK” and the other little thing called “MY CREATIVE PRODUCTIVITY”

those are going fine. idiotically fine.

when i grow up i want to be a bunny dressed as a princess.

when i grow up i want to be a cat lady or preferably CATWOMAN

when i grow up i want to be an old southern gentleman equestrian

when i grow up i want to be a star

i want to be a ukranian acrobat

MAKING PAPER DOLLS AT MIDNIGHT AND  YOUR FACELESS EYES

a bird chirps at midnight
because its got jetlag or its time warped.
artificial rotten melon yellow street lamp
induced state of day in shades of abrasive gray ochre.
together we share the sleeplessness
like a Romantic dinner, split into two plates,
double dutch insomnia. the rose tossed between us. lovers quarreling for possession of

the dream.

who is this? what makes a face?
who makes the face? who makes the bird?
scrap heads, heads made of scraps of things, stick figures

and paper dolls made for the tiny stage, the coffee table

littered with crude cutouts and glitter.

monkey smoking a cigarette
ghost with a beak
bat with wide owl eyes
cat with rabbit ears
and my shadow’s negative is pure white
like a snarl.

hey there wildflower

we’re stuck with each other. and we
only do nothing
but stare. we could dance. a jig of alternating furtive
and aloof glances. frought with meaning, frought
with anti-flirtation gravity.

those blood shot brown eyes of yours
peared from the miscellaneous face.
like drinking sangria, i drank
the golden rose brine crushed blackberry, sweat of pear,
raspberry kernels, symphonic sip of flavors tasted in the bare contact

of our eyes.

im drunk
until you blink
and cease to exist.

im building winter
with scrap paper and sequin snowflakes.
i draw myself in the center of the gentle storm.
i burn my face out of the picture
with the cherry of a smoking cigarette
and my face is the burn of negative space,
a violent hole.

peep hole for an eye.

hey there wildflower, i see you

swaying with your brothers and sisters

in the wind that whistles i miss you

to the earth it brushes

but can’t belong to the way you do, wildflower.