I want to tell you there are shiitake mushrooms
in the chocolate croissants
I want to tell you a thousand lies
(like the awfulness of
orange and life, Frank)
I want to say you are perfect I want
to say "it goes really far, there is no
horizon between things," I want to say
that nothing will ever be vague again
that here we are and we are it forever
or that the worst is right
here
and the best is sung happily
through a cornflower right
here.
But I can't:
this is life, this is art. It's mostly
on the horizon. It's mostly in
the greyscale and it's a pretty
standard croissant
a pretty orange popsicle a pretty
girl a pretty good kind of day maybe
a pretty bad one the same stuff
about a hundred godzillion times
on about a hundred
godzillion days.
or maybe
I took the
shiitake mushrooms
out, cause
they are the best part
and while you were so busy
being brief being stung
I stole them
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