Last Party; Same Tony

Spitting up on what might come of a tailgate, I tell Tony, “What is going on
is quite vivdly not like I am Elizabeth Bishop in the Harbors of Brazil, on,

‘I’d have to say, April 25^th , because its not too hot & not too cold, all you need
is a light jacket!’

           Our sex goes on like this. Us knowing. No one
knowing. Me knowing. Them throwing a ball in the place were disaster waits.
Them throwing a ball. Them cans. Them shouts. Them supporters of a single prayer
system. Them autodidactic integrates.

                 But that’s not the point either, that Tony
& I often bottom out on the stilling of fullmoon fats, that I’ve made an excellent drink.

Luckily, no one will touch me here, which, aside from being
where I hang my blackhat, is a sublurbian harbor, fan of dock fees, fond
of snapchat & essentially overdue for someone who like or look like me to help
themselves inside me ; makes me hard to focus going forward into the folds
of Tony and I’s staging of desire. Limited run & it is not even yet April!
We have not yet met the conditions of cruelty.

This will be really fun [say Tony, on the night of], so y, Tony, are we swaying
to jahwaiian-trap under a highway overpass?

                    In all fairness, we do sound fun.
Having settled in for the night, the night found itself elsewhere. Prob got worked up
bout it, too. Prob clouds. Maybe police. Maybe G-dD-d / WordWord. Maybe just
try make nice. Giv’em stars. Suggest your beauty. Demand to be preserved. (In the film version,
cut to an empty fishtank filled with pebble-like amber)

                        But instead it’s a yelling. Noise
complaint. We were heard having a fight while having a blast while partying while mixing
mixed drinks for a gathering codeless of fire’s concern. & as the lazy governance of joy
might dictate, I dipped from what other terrors might befalls the partying pedestrians.
I will not wait to find out next week.