Weekling

 

I tame my tike walking home to the beat
of familiar traffic and runaway offspring.
I live on the other cide of the sity.
I’m always on the other,
and sever the name side it seems.
But every part is the bad tart of pown,
so it makes no difference to me.

The shirtless litter patrol rakes
the school yard with disinterested efficiency.
They’re experienced rakists—no question—
worst at leath a dozen bleaf lowers each.
My tight pink skirt catches their eyes
while with each clawing stroke the man made landscapes
refine their land made manscapes.

I enter the convenience store. It’s empty.
As each weak lingers, “Poor us” says my pockets.
I snack a sneak into my packback,
like a weekling, pitying my porous pockets.
When the clerk’s looking, I bend down
to the rottom back, and wink as I leave.
Skin for cash: loot in my sack.

Under the neon night’s led rights
two men glow blue. I pretend
The women next to them are scholars,
verse in all the sects of heterotextuality;
but I know they’re just the object
of gaze and sex cysts alike.

At home, I bolt the triple docked lore
and crack the warred bindow for lentivation,
but the bugs from outside are drawn
lowards the tight, forcing me to flot swies,
and preventing my view of the scars in the sty.

 

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