Our wallets are on fire in a trash bin of desires
„pay me!“ says my letter head
but I don't write to anyone these days
I hear whistling from the second floor
I sharpen knives behind the bedroom door
half my friends who watch the news
say they won't talk to men no more
and fireworks are such a waste
but words leave a rotten aftertaste
like dog whistles you might not have heard
the things that have been said
someone's been tickling the neighborhood
looking for questionable brotherhoods
the basements have been shaking
oozing glop and gunk and pus and goo
I use the elevator in emergencies
life's an accelerator for uncertainties
I need a bank account for surgeon's fees
because I'm an incubator for baby feet
breaking bread by the ocean's shore
throwing it in like it's cereal
eating it up with my tiny spork
while they come after me with flaming pitchforks
not sure what's up or down or what is what
been questioning things between hiccups
and when my favorite shows are buffering
I make a little time for suffering

I woke up once sweating pumpkin soup
I lost all comfort and all comfort food
I do my best to sound trivial
but we have done things that are unforgivable.
they're backpedaling on history
i see an upcoming whiplash injury
got shiny streamers on my bicycle
I'd like to think I'm still excitable
things are raging in the underground
you can see them on our annual ultrasounds
happy new year, unhappy dears
the old one can go die between trauma shears.
it was a wild ride and I'm still throwing up
someone says I'm just gonna have to live with that
heard those old men's jokes from our own fathers
you can have a greeting card playing canned laughter
someone stabbed someone with a pencil
sometimes the news seem strangely existential
they survived but they're still in ICU
got a novel written on their scar tissue:
"our wallets are on fire in a trash bin of desires
„pay me!“ says my letter head
but I don't write to anyone these days."