and you've got problems with your laundry, you dress making housewife

Oh, my consumate mates!
You can swallow whole dates
and bathe under the sun for hours.

Should you want a gun
to bite between your teeth,
make it of sunflowers.
Yes, the bullet gently slides down your throat,
emitting all it's warmth.

And you thought bullet powder
was made for only killings and wars.

Oh, my consumate mates.
We drank on three legged stools,
teased the school boys
that clicked out as soon as
their best friends lost their minds.

We brothelled fire in our stomachs
to blast out our true feelings inside.

And as the day finished
like a pill finally coming into place,
we lied on matress grass and cherry pasts
and watched the stars illuminate.

Infuriate.

All terminated in the morning.


I remember clearly,
she sat under neath my bed.

Tweasing me,
yooning me,
kinning me.

Slum the beautterflies at noon,
and all the memories flood back
and destroy the cities that cover me.

A rusty metallic taste of marshmallows,
and my taste buds never stopped.
Yes,
the place in which we had burnt our portraits
yet exists. The rusty house that stills remains:
we can clean it,
the detergents exist.

In this modern day, you could clean blood stains
off a million dollar silken jacket.


Oh, my consumates.
Oh, the consumed spider once sat on its web,
popping off dreams in thought bubbles.

And we'd watch like the drive-in movies
in the middle of summer.

At the dusk, water droplets
would form on our shoulders,
but like chimpanzees picking lice out of family,
we were.

And the world was in blankets
and all wrapped up,
like the bundle of insignificant things
for a four year olds birthday;
it's the though that counts.

I stand here,
recalling this in a marbled mask,
so old that it has faded away
like a town statue has pigeon shit
building up on its head.

I never intended to be
so numb-fingeredly
adressing our problems to a seizing wall.

Usually I'd be screaming my problems
to men inside my head,
but they are long dead.

It has been said that I am not sane,
so my legs do wilt
and squelch in pain.

I've fallen down into the atic
and I'm not coming back.


Which makes you wonder:
just how is the Mongolian bureaucracy handling itself?