By Ryan Healy
We’ve been working on diseases you wouldn’t believe.
We sat still for years and thought of nothing but penises.
You ran. Not off our maps, but the ones you hoped we didn’t have.
Say the word “veins.” Make them up & salute.
“If you don’t know, then hound it.” Too little, too late.
This all predated your life, if that’s a word you still claim to defend.
You claimed to agree that decisions exist. You know remorse, but you stole that from others.
You were so stupid. So funny. You assumed, or you didn’t: you were wrong either way.
Desires. We broke & rebuilt them, and refinanced their pee.
We dipped some in metal. They’re losing steam fast.
If it’s not there, ignore it, but something is there. You’re not that insightful. You just liked feeling right. We taught you to fold napkins. You forgot to forget.
There’s this word we’ve been saving; we’re working out how to pronounce it.
It will just put to shame what we’d told you was “pain.”
We spent nights working this up. Ordered in E85. Ordered in nails.
We tipped eighteen percent. Don’t sweat us that–we have pills to help us redilate.
We learned you liked silver linings. Got bullish on clouds. Our boredom outdone by the porn we’d been snorting.
We came up with–by accident!–a new shade of red. You should see it. And taste it.
We’re just absolutely gaga fucking sick for this shit.
Don’t accuse us of plastic if you’re giddy for latex.
“Drop your guard, take a punch.” You did some math in school.
When we fall behind lingo, we post some tits to catch up. Never holds. It’s pathetic.
Challenge yourself to see how you know that’s really true.
If you are, then we’re happy–to just not exist.
We thought we got by on our reluctance. We still half-believe that we’ll die by it too.