I am in the business of holding on to too many things at once,
in the market for turning heads and sideways stares.
A little pricey,
somewhat exorbitant,
always a sight for sore and searching eyes,
a touch so accidental it can only be coincidence,
the smell of furious, ferocious confusion:
the state should really regulate its pheromones.
Because I feel furry,
a little nippy,
a little wet
from all your frothing at the mouth,
the fraying of the skin.
A little flagellated.
A little fleshed.
And maybe
just a little fucked.
You are fleetfooted;
luckily, the Earth and I are even faster.
Someone called for an earthshaker,
and got this earthen heavyweight instead:
a living, breathing, murmuring trail of flowers and fucktasy,
an air of hasty, effluent haze;
a guessing of who one could really be
as prizes tumble
and heartaches soar.
You don't want to be the one to burst my bubble but
I would say
it’s really just the exchange rate.