plastic

maybe the moon has us on a leash, that's why we stay out so late, giggling at mechanical cow rodeos and shit-talking the holidays (fuck christmas, give me a guiness.) i saw the sun set twice yesterday, once in the rain, along the 405, the sun looking like a shy goosebumped peach rolling side-by-side my car, quietly singing can't-touch-this-nyah-nuh-nuh-nyaaah at me, and another time, in the rain, on a plastic couch, her cigarette butt dying out as she leans in close, her chin fitting in the 3-inch space where my neck meets my right shoulder. whenchoo start smoking!, a friend says me. i think when i stopped sleeping, i sheepishly reply, with a goofy etch-a-sketch-grin. lung cancer, what i want for christmas is lung cancer.

i drag another one, and watch the smoke turn into elephants and jellyfish. a circus, it's a circus under my skin, a square dance to squarepusher set to a beat marked by the fibonacci sequence (square one, biotch.) what i'm saying is: i have no words, just pauses and breaks, a "..." and a "um" walking hand in hand out of my mouth.

sonic youth's "dripping dream."

i think the stars are singing que sera sera. and me, i just wanna shut em up with a sunrise. (ouch, cheesy.)