2800 hours

so the porch has turned into
a speed-dating scene
where fucking begins in your head
abscessed eye-tag
left over wine bottles
badly rolled cigarettes that won't light and then
burn
too quick
fuck

one porch chair hurls the occupant out onto
the street
the other
is rigid as hell
and not useful for breaking in, apparently

this summer's going to be a
fun one, isn't it?!
with washing machines that hate duvets
and try to throw them out like possessed industrial hunks of plastic
OH WAIT THEY ARE
I suppose at least, ideally, I'll spend the summer elsewhere anyhow
cups collecting flies stains ash
(I don't smoke
by the way)

if you didn't like the wine then geez, just say so
no need to break a face


I've taken to smiling at strangers in the street
I figure they need it
I figure I need it



but seriously
geez
if you're gentleman enough to
smoke outside
then be gentleman enough to leave me alone
and if you've made your mind up about
company
about six rolling into seven
then you just talk straight, ok?
because your pretending just
fucks me right off


(and then I made some generic comment about men being
persistent
predictable
oh its soo unfaiirrrrrrr, whined my brain)


I've taken to smiling at strangers in the street

but I can only do it if the right song is sleeping in my ears
I need my ego to mask my ego


I smile at women too

I think they like it