of corrupting pasirian young men
with mothers that hold their cross
and talk the talk but don't let me lay
on their couch.
fuck you, i said
i'm going to have sex with your son anyways
in the ikea poang chair once the coast is clear
and you can whisper dreamy french nothings into me
I think the best part of this poem is where Ikea enters... not because it particularly fits, but because it seems slightly incongruous with the rest, but in a pleasant way. It's a nice surprise, a tonal shift. I like it.
ReplyDeletemmm...i like writing about my dreams for that very reason. rando!
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