I Feel Like Poop
Because
I Called My Love
To Tell Her All About
What Her Body
Is Doing
In My Head
And Then She Told Me
I Was On Speakerphone
The Worst Bit Was
I Also Told Her
About A Poo
That I Had Only Recently
Had
Luckily
That Came Before
I Told Her About Her Body
And So I Heard
The Uproarious Laughter
From The Car
Filled With
Her Mother
Her Son
And Her Ex-Husband
I Feel Like Poop
in other news, i'm here at work, with no one around, and they're playing "audio art" which is basically the art of confusing people into thinking their radios are not tuned properly. uck. but hey. whatever floats yer boat.
i feel confident enough in saying that no one sees this to add to my poem a short explanation of how pretty and sexy and lovely my love is. and there it was. a short explanation, which i always want to spell "explaination" as "explain" is the root word, and also the root meaning. but, like wednesday, that would make too much sense for english. anywhoooooo...
it's been altogether too long since i've been completely de-clothed, outside of showering occasionally, of course. and being de-clothed is an action, as well. an action that hasn't happened TO me, as it were, for nearly three weeks, i swear.
it goes without saying, i hope, that these are the expressions of a girl who is stressed and tired but horny as heck, and are not to be taken seriously at all.
i feel like singing in italian some soft drifty song that turns out to be all about how the singer wants sex. if i knew italian, all of the above would seem far less dirty somehow.
poop, just for further explAInation, is my personal word for DAMNED EMBARASSED. which is to say "em-" (as in the prefix meaning "to make") "bare" "assed". the sum of the parts is that i feel no less like a child than i always do, no less observed than i always do, and no less an embarassment than i always do, and no more free to be who i am than i've ever been - meaning NOT free, really, when it comes right down to it.
i mean with her, yes. but our lifestyle is such that being with her is not ever JUST with her. but oh i am the saint of patience (not really, but i'm meant to be. if i really was, i wouldn't even be saying this stuff) and one day, over the rainbow, we will have some privacy at some point. not from her son, of course, but that's okay. it's the myriad of other people that make it feel so crowded.
of course, maybe i should just be less embarassing. maybe it's strange to tell the one you love about your bowel movements, or about how naked she is in your head. maybe it's strange to draw with chalk in your twenties, to want to make strange tea-hot-chocolate combos in the wee hours of the night, or to play guitar mid-afternoon in your room. maybe i'm strange. maybe i should be less strange and then all of this em-bare-ass-ment would be less omnipresent. but i have a strange feeling that the one i love wouldn't like that very much, because it would be fake. and i have a feeling that the one i love is just as strange as i am, when not observed by those who would judge her. i want to see all of her strangeness, so i assume that she wants to see all of mine.
if she does, she knows where to look.
i feel like poop.
i feel confident enough in saying that no one sees this to add to my poem a short explanation of how pretty and sexy and lovely my love is. and there it was. a short explanation, which i always want to spell "explaination" as "explain" is the root word, and also the root meaning. but, like wednesday, that would make too much sense for english. anywhoooooo...
it's been altogether too long since i've been completely de-clothed, outside of showering occasionally, of course. and being de-clothed is an action, as well. an action that hasn't happened TO me, as it were, for nearly three weeks, i swear.
it goes without saying, i hope, that these are the expressions of a girl who is stressed and tired but horny as heck, and are not to be taken seriously at all.
i feel like singing in italian some soft drifty song that turns out to be all about how the singer wants sex. if i knew italian, all of the above would seem far less dirty somehow.
poop, just for further explAInation, is my personal word for DAMNED EMBARASSED. which is to say "em-" (as in the prefix meaning "to make") "bare" "assed". the sum of the parts is that i feel no less like a child than i always do, no less observed than i always do, and no less an embarassment than i always do, and no more free to be who i am than i've ever been - meaning NOT free, really, when it comes right down to it.
i mean with her, yes. but our lifestyle is such that being with her is not ever JUST with her. but oh i am the saint of patience (not really, but i'm meant to be. if i really was, i wouldn't even be saying this stuff) and one day, over the rainbow, we will have some privacy at some point. not from her son, of course, but that's okay. it's the myriad of other people that make it feel so crowded.
of course, maybe i should just be less embarassing. maybe it's strange to tell the one you love about your bowel movements, or about how naked she is in your head. maybe it's strange to draw with chalk in your twenties, to want to make strange tea-hot-chocolate combos in the wee hours of the night, or to play guitar mid-afternoon in your room. maybe i'm strange. maybe i should be less strange and then all of this em-bare-ass-ment would be less omnipresent. but i have a strange feeling that the one i love wouldn't like that very much, because it would be fake. and i have a feeling that the one i love is just as strange as i am, when not observed by those who would judge her. i want to see all of her strangeness, so i assume that she wants to see all of mine.
if she does, she knows where to look.
i feel like poop.
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