I’m not going to write poems about you. This shirt is falling apart around us. Rubble on your back. Back rubble, as it were. “Weeeeeeee!” isn’t much of a battle cry. “No, I don’t live here,” he said, gesturing around the dumpster, “I’m just visiting.” My mother used to eat raw eggs. We come from strange stock. List your five favorite primates. What is your favorite food related sound? Mine is toast being buttered. I’ve got shoeboxes full of style, baby. Orange juice in your tea. How nice of you to grace us with your perfume. Don’t make me colder. Big bad bug. Don’t expect this to last forever—or even a day. What if you fell down the stairs and hit your head (ouch!). Flying with some other man’s wings. Mushrooms of love and devotion. Don’t monkey with me, my love. Crack to the head. It’s all right here in black and white. Sate my thirsty. Could you say it in another language? Grope me so I like it. Superman is made of rubber and wax. God is made of rubber and wax. I am made of rubber and wax. I can see her slipping off her shoes. Cringe and flinch, attorneys at law. Lets not pretend we’re married. I guess we could still go all night though. “I’m a few years beyond bath toys but that doesn’t mean I’m against having a little fun in the shower, madam.” May you cease to exist. There is no room for growth. What is your grossest torment? Where do you hide your sins? Is this filthy enough for you? What’s with all the questions? Lets just sit here and pretend we’re going to heaven. She keeps me from touching the ground.