When I write long songs I will create them out of others’ books of poetry, in this case from Refuge by Belle Waring

Not morals. Manners. Grist for the guests. When they armed with me with reasons to send them away. They drank all my beer. They fucked my roommates. They created sub-par art. No such thing. I drank with them. They told me I had cocaine eyes. They were always allowed to stay. Stay as long as you want.

To visit takes an escort: Lolly,
they used to call my sister, not that she was ever classified as a guest. People like her, I wouldn’t say “too much.” When we run from bulls together, let’s be great. Let’s get all the poetry awards and make mockeries of them. No, let’s pretend we’re married to each other’s husbands, if I found a husband I would give him to you, I want to write your poems. I would like to suck them off, how easy is sex in the wake of language.

I’m frankly shocked to be this hard, this early, usually it takes about nineteen minutes and the xanax to kick in. No, the pollen. I wanted to be shocked and there wasn’t much that could shock me outside language. What makes me breathe, there is nothing as involuntary as song.

“The nurses said No Flowers.” Flowers make some people cry, they are allergic to the bloodsex for pollination, what if bees were allergic, we’re allergic to bees and peanuts and shrimp, thank the gentle goddess for what we create. Owing my mind to the plants that I ate on the way to evolution, could the cycle include small minnows. No, minnows. Regular-sized minnows that were fed to me when I was a goldfish. Didn’t I mention my minnowness to you. You could see my size or where I was but never both at the same