my fingers with their quickly clipping typing tips
take me clicking tick by tick
away from all this clutter.
i'm 6 hours dark, i'm disshevelled at heart.
the landscape is dissolving, running into the gutter,
coloring the puddles.
the sheen of familiarity drips off my geography
it slicks oily rainbows in parking lot palettes.
and the whole world is gray
and the whole world is wet.
i miss your shot glass grimace, girl.
let me live in your bedstand and write
i tap my silly typing to the bottoms of these bottles
night after smooth senseless night.