Cockblock


Proximity: Still, certain species refs captive breeding, and it takes more than a faux-covert meeting at TGIF and consensual obscene gestures over a basket of wings to become fuckbuddies again, deep-six the Friend Zone, get caffeinated and naked past the kiddies’ light-out, the parental M.O.


Exhaustion: Thing fall by the wayside, like baking and cos-play


Traffic: Traffic.


Mornings: Keep Christ in Christmas! Mu Childhood Trauma is Better than Your Childhood Trauma!


Storybookland: Unlike, for instance, in the war zones, where children have to drink their water filtered through a dirty sock, anthropomorphized badger dads in smoking jackets and badger hausfraus in aprons, superannuated wives-cum-pumpkin-shell-dwellers/house-arrestees/school- coat-drive-organizers, their rose gardens rocking the same arterial red.


Triage: I don’t wanna


I don’t wanna


I don’t wanna


Captivity: As such, the animal-mind really just wants to tie off in the stockroom two minutes after clocking in, answer the door braless and sweating, recall its nebulous lives in the capital


Monday: sucks out lifeblood, leaving only the dishes and the laundry


Afflictions: Commonly known as Mommydrudge Syndrome, i.e., nursing a Benadryl/Unisom hangover in unflattering, “comfy” sweats


Nostalgia: For them to remain children always, grubby and bankrolled, avoiding the ranks of the cutters and the pill-heads, chewing their gluey sandwiches and staring at us with their trusting, sugar-rushed eyes


Captivity: Driving home, the horizon a squall of geese the neighborhood a little rough around the proverbial edges—pitbulls; pain pills; evictions; shirtless smoking on the peeling front porch— not unlike a sucking chest wound/bleeding-from-the-eyes variety of burned-the-fuck-out


Mornings: Mornings


Nostalgia: Just yesterday, at the all-ages show, our pockets stuffed with notes beginning When was the last time you and Have you ever


Triage: Where is my posed photo shoot with the autumnal/rustic barn background? At this point in the fiscal year, is it already too early to say? What is my kink identify, anyway? When do I get to sit in the lamplight with my split ends in peace?

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