for me

the world hurts too much to be wearing pants
o
world, downcast, o
forlorn beatrice, i called you shylock
slight me for it
in a thousand graces
by the blankets
alms of cool air
over toes

the government. though saying truth
is harder and harder, i relapse;

 o beat
 o blanket

 what say, nay
 what thrust of glib spit
 ancient or dust
 cloaked
 would you wet this
 peasant soul for?

like what is with all the "o"s?

has your vibrator stolen your throat?

like, really,
where the fuck did mystery go?

   too hard she said

was like:
i haven't even taken my pants off yet.