My bastard lack of adventure sits its mopey eyes on the rail.
It is a Tuesday and no news of a friend
whether he is alive or no.
Somehow I missed the burn-over.
Just barely middled out in a canister
of Dust Off and sat idly by.
Do you know why icons are bouncing these days
like dust particles in a thunderclap.
My bastard lack of age makes up for its time in dirt naps.
Do you know why we all
port to the collared few.
I stabled my cable bill in an otherworldly nighttime.
My bastard hoax of a name balloons.
The steery-eyed men frothed with collaboration
at the smell of a possible dismount.
My bastard-eyed angels rate you hot-or-not and forget the eggs and burn them.
Do you know why their stitched beaks mime typography.
My bastard track record downsizes and leaves me holed up in a swamp cooler with silverfish.
Did you remember to buy arena football posters.
Do you dance when maritime pride
leaves a mimed pistol.
My bastard guru sitting next to me who I've never talked to gives "cleansing" lessons.
Do you know what you can do with epsom salts
and a decent sunrise.
Do you know how you can make your error messages
work for you,
my bastard lack of a good explanation for our disconnect,
my bastard hands and my posturing,
my bastard inbox with your bastard, bastard lack of re:s, cc:s, and bcc:s
and my bastard bangarang in a tinseled room.