Emails between Poets
D.S.
Nov 14
to me
you better remember that super cute cashier, cute whose girls names
not keSha or a dollar sign from the receipt that she is gonna sign her
name when she reads these lyrics. like madison, max, monroe take it to
these h'os, a back stabbing a presidential gangback for big bucks not
the young ones but the uncle buck candy ass for the prison system. not
your mind but the control remotely, silently space. knuckles glowing
from the street lamp champange underlights desperate nights i want you
in the corner getting warmer you'll know my mind in these non rhymes.
off the beat and the path you never heard this. its my second side or
the dark side growing sunspot hits in his time slots. jacpots ready
fuck the lottery. draft my resume and put me on holiday. Its time b
sides.
wish you were
he will also know
my biceps are smiling
he is not a snowman
he has a neck
i will interrogate you
like a millionaire
a receipt for the cashier
tiny fake deli bars run by dolls
remember their accents
Me
Nov 15
to D.S.
Its so perfect like
San Franciscan shameless freedom road rambling night poetry
bouncing wine boddles down quiet garden to
inaugurate endless rightness with continental margins
overlooking west waters with gone folded pizza whack
in misunderstanding genius of verbal violent prose
with a lighter like a lamplight into the last land of the
new world made hilly runs of manic fitness freaks
and scoring cute looks from stylish cuddlefish in old hostels
and latter hugs that are really bear traps for vagabonds
relishing San Franciscan shameless freedom road
rambling night poetry.
I found big laughing gyms today on a stump in Presidio land.
Thought of you while walking and milk texting.
Nov 14
to me
you better remember that super cute cashier, cute whose girls names
not keSha or a dollar sign from the receipt that she is gonna sign her
name when she reads these lyrics. like madison, max, monroe take it to
these h'os, a back stabbing a presidential gangback for big bucks not
the young ones but the uncle buck candy ass for the prison system. not
your mind but the control remotely, silently space. knuckles glowing
from the street lamp champange underlights desperate nights i want you
in the corner getting warmer you'll know my mind in these non rhymes.
off the beat and the path you never heard this. its my second side or
the dark side growing sunspot hits in his time slots. jacpots ready
fuck the lottery. draft my resume and put me on holiday. Its time b
sides.
wish you were
he will also know
my biceps are smiling
he is not a snowman
he has a neck
i will interrogate you
like a millionaire
a receipt for the cashier
tiny fake deli bars run by dolls
remember their accents
Me
Nov 15
to D.S.
Its so perfect like
San Franciscan shameless freedom road rambling night poetry
bouncing wine boddles down quiet garden to
inaugurate endless rightness with continental margins
overlooking west waters with gone folded pizza whack
in misunderstanding genius of verbal violent prose
with a lighter like a lamplight into the last land of the
new world made hilly runs of manic fitness freaks
and scoring cute looks from stylish cuddlefish in old hostels
and latter hugs that are really bear traps for vagabonds
relishing San Franciscan shameless freedom road
rambling night poetry.
I found big laughing gyms today on a stump in Presidio land.
Thought of you while walking and milk texting.