mirrionetta

You fucked me last night, or at least you tried to…
just prior to that thinning sound 
of helicopter spinning overhead like cicada tied by thread nailed hard into heavy earth
and the monkey alarm 
                                   clock.

I broke into your house while you were away — to leave a letter,
but your bald-headed, couch-crasher walked in on me asleep upon your floor… I’m not sure why the floor… nor the sleep for that matter; there were two beds and one couch pushed up against all walls false- wood paneling. Perhaps the short bed was too short and the larger bed had that tall clear plastic bag of feminine articles staking citronella claim… and well, I respect stakes

as well as flames and claims

its all here for a reason, but I digress…

The couch was untouchable and I’m in your room without my pen and you’ve no paper to be seen, baldy likes talking at me and I’m wringing the corners of my dress nervous because I hear a car outdoors and I had wanted to flee prior to you’re arriving. I’m trespassing this creaky house of swinging-open doors, I slip into the restroom which now stands in place of the true 

entrance to your room and try to pry a sink-top window
for escape — there is none, so I find myself 

showering my rationale further into the oblivion we have managed we — one tiny towel 

and my clothing vanished and 

the door is swinging itself open as you walk in

fat hairy and disgustingly fucked-up on god 

only knows with your most obtusely talented roommate’s

Eye glowing red with a crazed-telepathic today is crazy day smile, “well, look what the cat…”

In a way which makes me feel beautiful despite my lack 
of proper dress, hair or makeup. “yep, mine is turning quite odd“ — I flare-sanguinely expecting a death-fit from either direction. His swollen gait squeezes past my awkward pigeon-toed hands squeezing towel together stance; left-elbow propping the door which had been hinged to the right of me — dripping, to visit a blonde female-midget whom sleeps in a cave of dark futon looking cushions stack-piled in the corner of this   

 restroom. He lovingly looks into her and I begin 

to understand this place

Just a little bit more —

“i thought you were a drinker”

“none of your doors work” the latch won’t catch

I project a bit too loud, captivated by the ugly-majesty of the ocurrent display of
affection and expecting you are still, standing, at the first entry, “Don’t stare”

You breathe upon my right shoulder, behind me; I look to you like a child

Being smacked for reaching a warm cookie and you kiss me 

to the floor…

      ”what are you doing?”

“Remember…” and then you slip into some Asiatic tongue and the flood comes imaged-blur beyond recognitionsound;

we are digging through the layers of cut-off shorts and rubber-bands sandwiched between blankets and sheets, throwing them upon bicycles leaned up against the wall… 

         and then 

That monkey alarm and the giant cicada.