I want to bury you in follicles of your own beauty, and when that isn’t enough, when dogs, alleys, drooping sadness from the parched tops of the clouds to the discount drivers in the street, when in forceful ways we learn to beg from one another where sadness and class meet, over the numb mountains, under the dumb corners, the stressed designs of another, forbidden and careless, little runaway bitches beneath all of the lists of sundry, barely, wasted, kitchens, tasting and tasted, forgiveness, backwash, I am low now in your sink, inside of you, and, coming up on your cool waters, your warm opportunities, I beg for a once in a lifetime, for a lifetime of fuck and give and gush, the walls so hot. Have you ever seen a summer so hot, have you ever been, have you ever, seen, have, you ever been a summer that pulls at the teeth of the sun, and when the walls again so hot and swell and bray and then, how, for once, my little friend, how for twice, tiny devil, how would you, would I, allow the most penetrating claps of disgruntled lamenting under the claws of those who were never borne into intelligence, nor, dog forgive, let alone, money, honey? You know I’ll be yours. I will always be yours.

Jon Conley is a writer and musician living in Cleveland where he is a professor of composition. His work can be found at places like Hobart and Hello Horror. You can find him online @beachstav.

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