vintagerocket's profile

there were satellites that night i tried to capture myself. i blew past them. it took two bottles of vodka to figure out one lousy wish in the palm of a burning hand is worse than no wish at all.

i loved on champlain like i was french, hoping for more wives than none but preferably, only you. the truth is, the moon looked lonely that night so i buttered croissants under piss-eyed streetlamps and never noticed how my hunched figure imitated a yield sign, stuttering cars to a stop. _"j- je t'aime."_

i crouched in wheat stalks with a flimsy aeroplane folded along my lips - a shuttle to mars, the east. back home.

i. i pluck a fat peach and skin it, pretending the plump delicious is earth i eat sweet juiced crust like a lizard, eventually tossing out the bitter meat at its core ii. dad yells a lot over the phone & mum fidgets the cross welded on her left breast & cries about how my uncle is too happy

july came as a virago this year coaxing the rocky road of its ice cream trucks and leaving a sad imprint of broken farmers suffocating under sunflowers that had gotten fat long before the previous summer ever reached the dell. the sun and the 25th meet on occasion, in silence, as their perpendicular bodies form a table near the horizon for picnics and swingset-scented sex in the evenings. their limbs are what separate the sky's fleshy under-bags from the bags under my eyes, worn heavy under a...