The bird mistaking glass for air

makes a heavy rain-sound on the window.

I am wearing my burnout dress

but today nobody seems to care.

I'd rather stop myself from poetry than force myself

to ice cream; something is always more

or less delicious depending

on where your tongue goes.

Anyone who dresses like Robert Smith

for Halloween should really know this by now.

Please don't call me kiddo,

there are so many people

I should have read and/or fucked by now,

it's almost embarrassing.

All my temples curling in on themselves

like when you enter me Cassiopeia-style.

When midnight stepped on my foot

my first thought was:  This isn't as painful

as I thought it would be.

And I was wrong.

It hurt like everything.