look at the natives

cleaning out
my cosmic cupboards today
such horrid habits i’ve acquired
these past few years
i can’t throw things with sentimental innuendo away
hops on the ohio shot glasses
each filled with august afternoon light
a beer festival in a german town
with an unnatural reverence for pork
held upon a purple bridge
it would have served us better
to throw ourselves off that day
wishing for bourbon
we found the inch before
true love’s kiss
what the fuck was i thinking
i never should have told you
my heart once loved another
at the mention of his name
you never forgave me
and kept her sickness
tucked festering inside your passport sleeve
how right you are
shall always be
gypsy insight
such ado
about nothing
we were nothing
it is i who should have given
geisha boxes
and told you to wear less paint
you were a substitute for love
look at the natives
aren’t they quaint
you’ve never been lovelier
than you are
in the act
of walking away

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