Parker Tettleton writes more than he remembers. His work has appeared in elimae, Mud Luscious, > kill author, Vinyl Poetry, & DOGZPLOT, among others. He is blog editor for the literary press YesYes. Find more information & work here.
Our heartbreak’s my rinse your. You our said I thrill not. I know you name our wished. Repeat directions, ingredients. Our never I’ve heard you say—. Rinse, thrill, wished. Ours mine yours. Oh little everything all often.
There is a girl with feet on my back.
She’s real when I’m missing. Sometimes we argue about place. She says living, I say kitchen. We meet how our phones ring. I can’t help sun out of our eyes.
Why don’t you when you’re saying. Why don’t we. Why not us. What you & I here why. How not. No once.
If you guess, it’s a haircut. I can’t remember when I love. The third sentence is held. Sex made Italy everywhere. I wasn’t always clipping tumblers.
I believe in clichés to call mine. Truth is not, violence. Nothingness here to sit read, stay windowed.
I bear planes. Yours & mine & ours don’t think about ours. Don’t think about yours. Don’t think about mine.
You never once. I am no always.
We’ve sex under a pineapple lamp. My your. Champagne lady is red in, swept. I would’ve known you drinking. Yours & ours not mine.
You don’t know I like you in glasses when I wear mine.
You’re eating things with bad sex on them. I know because it’s odd dated Saturdays I know. There is a pan cookied & a striped Christmas door & three cigarette butt floors & sometimes broken gates & gate passes. I lose mine & take yours.
I love you like cats. Let’s cookie & fly Mr. Bees’ kite.