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boxing the curves

my cats captured a ballpoint
whacked it round teasing
and preying on the poor thing it died
a playful undignified death submerged it's
blue blood pasting itself to my hardwood floor
the world is full of toys
the wires behind the TV Christmas tree
lights the electric fan my forearm my foot
my used underwear?
so silly
so unprofessional
so admirable
I don't wanna write memos simple enough
for the average moron to comprehend and
wear suits resembling a man's
boxing the curves of a woman
I wanna slap paint onto canvases carelessly that
some shmuck will say in 100 years "These lines
mean she was a bed wetter," when it didn't
stand for one fucking thing you analytical boob
have the dessert course before the salad at
a snobby-ass restaurant tell the waiter I only
need one fucking fork thank you
have snowball fights at 3am in the city
park with a mad lover who loves me back
the cats are curled up asleep in the corner
now I gotta figure out a way to get the ink
out of their paws before they lick it out and
without getting the shit scratched out me

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