oh god- they’re coming
of age all around me
overflowing in their MGMT
marinade, added MSG
and visions of seafoam green
aeroplanes-over-the tom-faced boy
right arm raised in a salute
to jeff mangum and look! i just
name-dropped stephen fucking malkmus
like conor oberst. all laughs aside, it’s just
him too, who knew? the joy of neutral milk hotel
he felt my feelings when he felt the chorus swell
the sparkling sputter and the waterpipe’s bubble
trespassed through open fields. he made his name on brick
& she was west, a well-blended Vespa-blessed sunset-
never dressed to caress, always prime for exploring
one girl, the city, her bike- that boy, some paint pens, the like-
bored by my letters, so fawning, adoring!
the Object- the daydream- the nice boy, the art dyke.
and i, in my oldish cap, youngish next to all of that,
pressed up like a photogram- flattened by a few odd years.