we’re not surviving of late
but no one’s yet been made a checkmate.
the party mix music mucus is getting too thick
like the smoke that curls around us
like toxic, uninterested “friends”. (friends, see: accessories)
we wear them.

and we can’t get our tongues deep enough, no matter how long and strong
no matter the width and breadth of the bong
no matter how utterly inebriated - absolutely intoxicated
oh we can’t get our tongues deep enough inside to really taste eachother
we can’t get deep enough to call eachother’s bluff.

                                              (its rare that his pupil meets her pupil
                                               its rare that he can see his heart beating behind her retinas.
                                                                        but it happens.
                                                                                 I promise.
                                                                                                   I’ve read about it)

we’re not surviving this day after day delay of living
crawling under meaning,
breastfeeding eyes.
I’ve grafted so many words to the inner lining of my chest cavity but forgot the punctuation so they read like a run on sentence so they read like a run on sentence so they read like so ...

sentenced to day after day of diving into eachother’s shallow waters,
hitting our heads at the bottom
its giving us brain damage: we’re leaking slowly into sewers
and no one salvages the drainage (drainage, see: words left unsaid, questions unasked, confessions forgotten before forgiven)
and surely no one rummages through the wreckage
to find the message,

anymore,     anyhow.

we’re not surviving of late.
we are not a culture of death, Pope John, we’re a dead culture
that’s why no ones moonstruck
that’s why no one dares to spill their guts
that’s why it feels like necrophilia when we fuck