Quite - Careful

It isn’t safe, but it’s not sorry;

the gas is growing crystals in the lungs

It’s not bad, but it’s not perfect: maybe this is just a trial run

Is this my house?

Do I own free weights?

I am a fucking man, my chromosome’s a forked tongue

It’s my garage: it’s my gas, my car, my time, and my enclosure

Don’t be last, and don’t be lonely.

See a special kind of timing in the leap

Don’t be cruel, don’t be annoying, don’t sell yourself short

Is this my ring?

I must have four kids

The dimpled plastic roof is not quite yellow

Are these my hands?

They look like trees choked out by vines

Is this my breath?

It’s more like gun-smoke?

Two fingers pulling greasily at chicken

Is that the sun?

It looks too sharp and clean:

A bubble filling endlessly with air

Is this my friend?

It feels to forced for that

It isn’t wrong, but it’s not quite right

Now living feels like whispering at night

I have a couch, I have a TV now