She's spilling babies and shaking on the kitchen floor,
put her celibacy in a crayon box
and forgot it in the cupboard.
This is her name in a briefcase.
The potential catalog
just hides behind biased eyes,
because nothing really matters
as long as you're a partisan.
Things will go your way,
When Jesus loves you as much as they say.
I never cared a bit about the swing set,
because it never got its rust on me.
He's a surrogate lover and pensive to the bone.
She wears his pennies on her way to the phone to
breathe more amnesia
from rolls of paper.
Reality is fading, the high is elating, sedated again.
I'm proud to be on this island.
She's just a whine-junky.
She was saved when it was a trend.
She was cliché before it was anything good.