love letter

he was smoke passing her lips, but hey, it was her lips right? He had invested plenty pleasent time staring at them while inwardly cursing his own, those black cracked sons of bitches, they were his crooked rusting keys to soft wet pleasure, but they left him out in the fucking rain. wet hair again. a good look for him, but he can't stop that fucking squinting, blue eyes blue eyes dart about the place. scared of what they want. don't know the fuck why they don't. maybe they're just done? done all they can and now they can and now they just killing time in his head. mission accomplished, lets just stare at pretty girls, and put them right off this sucker. i dont give a fuck, his clunky uncomfortable skull. and those teeth? oh those fucking teeth if i only had three wishes id trade for three minues alone with those assholes, im too angry for the economics of any deal, just give me fucking revenge. Music calms the savage beast. can you fit that trumpet in my ear hank? thanks for trying. theres real stamina in them wrists, drawing, writing and of course the old procreation practise. well practised of course. like any sane person, worried they do it too often, while still containing some animal, a tickle behind the ear and they squint content, contempt washing away. but red comes back, hiding in wrong looks, cold nights and rum, some motherfucker motherfucking balling your fists up for you, sticking thier chin out special for you, like a pretty girl letting you know its a night to do your best to remember. but you just do your best, give them six of the best and wonder for the rest of your years what it all meant. the same as any other fun fing. everything means the end, thats why stories end with the end. non-stop apocalypse and babylon punch lines, punctuating your sad lives, but you know how to make the world go along. scream curses at the moon in the night and you scream curses at the moon in the night alone, but fuck, and the world fucks with you. love letters? love letters? that was how i began to write, but the scrippy primal noises of a newborn aint fucking singing. its more than pen to paper, just like poetry aint just rhyming. you wanna make that point? here you go, its at the end of your pen. but be careful, some of those dicks are magic in the (this can say right or wrong) hands , you had better knot know what your doing if you want some purity, and i dont mean fucking clean, but that could be because i dont know fuck the what that means. fuck purity you dont want my soul in a love letter, thats tacky as fuck.

yours yours,

francis

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