here in canada

The multiple perspectives of ourselves chanting a whistle rhyme. We dine and wine for pleasure, what else? Give me your garlic smell because the apex of your legs smells like fish. Too obvious shitface? See it on the eyeballs through the screen to your silhouette and the way it was meant to be. Fingers seem as if they should be available, flexible, at all points until it’s too cold to punch codes into buildings or form words. You are this and that shitface. I always talk around the subject, but today I’m going to point at its bulls eye. We are indulgent folk who are criticizing ourselves—each aching, passing moment—for what we want to indulge in. You, sir, I want you in my pants. The psychedelic fashion makes for a punching sensation of time. I don’t care if you think I’m perfect, stupid, stupid, fecting, stu, pidting. Say it with your tongue out, my eye lids weeping for your approval. Is the wetness on my toes the likes of defrosting? What are you doing, in there Sarah Common? I, sitting here on this couch, and you in the paint. Keeping going, don’t ever stop, or look back, but of course I will. Bells give off the feeling of time passing, and we wish to defy the linearity of it all, point a, birth, point b, death, blast the window open letting the outside air in. Smelling so good. Dripping down, pitying, emoting, while the pussy cat watches from the corner. Passing by pictures that effort to parenthesis memory. Places so soft, sometimes self-professedly scarred, long hairs covering the wounds. Sad that they should be called wounds. Bananas heal all such wounds. Friend’s make for devilish perspectives when you;re weeping without choice. I’m frozen now. Didn’t you say that we should forgive all destruction regardless of severity? Were you reading this ever. Was anyone sufficient when the twenties could bring on such egos. We’re, sob, so, sob, open, sob, to, sob, sob, destruction. Getting fucked up makes it feel so alternatively bless’ed. So good. Cook it up with some sesame and garlic. Cook me up in your kitschy kitchen. No bite, just sweet. Like the coconut milk soup and wine.