{ A microwave that cooks itself alive would never think of putting up a fight. Her counterpoint to souls we deem contrived is sitting back and saying, "that's alright." "Restraint is practiced only by the free," expostulates the drifting microwave (although not necessarily happily) "and freedom is the privilege of the brave." At a loss for words, the blender stares her down. Per minute, twenty-thousand rounds are spun. Such insolence befits only a clown! And some of us just want to have some fun. Near thirty-thousand rounds, the blender dies— the microwave that cooks itself just cries. } { a cloven clover slovenly did love barista drippings dropping in her mug Her friend's frenetic network net above could nothing garner greater than a shrug. She blankly banked upon her lankiness a way to wash away the crimson thorns. Her solemn, certain cure for loneliness was dragging ragged pieces home to mourn. A cast of muted castaways required those bright green leaves to burn under the sun. The daylight prison where she then expired insisted nothing happens just for fun. She blinked. She glimpsed a droplet in the mirror. she'll never have to face her greatest fear. } { before I stand before oasis store until impregnate I surveyless stretch evasion livelihood moors at the shore and thankless lighting paints me as a wretch connected to a motherfucking slave a scintillating, rental bike affair with such great care I pick out what I crave and thankless buzzing slowly eats the air recovery from feeling like a ghost among the freedom isles silent burning has led us one by one out to the coast and thankless crashing waves demand an earning. For now, I listen closely (to the void), ill-gotten Hammurabi Polaroid. } { a princess burning halfway down my throat my morning in a balderdashed state fatigue from me could lift as though a coat if I could be okay with being late routine and percolating laptop air imported sense of domesticity machine reality I do not share requires certain caffeine tendencies. Sometimes, it's easier to nothing do. There sits, outside, a chair of stolen wood. The noise (like bubbles) from the avenue demands naught else in order to be good. Before, I made Joe in the name of love, but now it's just for when push comes to shove. } { December heartbreak leaves that fall so cold- instruct our new position system hearts. We sift, complacent, through the things untold, so that you'll bless our trickling, fickle parts. Although the richest sinkhole drinks us in, although a postcard palsy haunts our life, your algorithm comes to pull the pin: we fear your image like we fear the knife. Magnetic wand'ring pawns set to your North have found a path from which to never err. We clamor, now we stumble ever forth and fall bewitchingly into your snare. Four-fifths of who you are today remained five hundred thirty-seven cycles drained. }