Kim Vodicka, Psychic Privates

Excuse My Fr❤nch

The love upon our garden gates
is whereupon gapes gunlight.

The Sussex annex of exploding hearts
in the fort nexus of forever.

They all smile when they say it.

Rose Svelte,
all striped and make lover,
all dressed up and just couldn’t believe.

In the bed that smells like too many boyfriends.

Too getting away with murderess.

The suffering of mine fools means forever.

It’s really oh the most gracious.

The grab-assery of this fuckall imbecilia.

In a heartlock.

Between the lips of tragic.

On that night, I died of laughter daughter.

I’ll be there in a few, you’ll be there in a few
too many.

I’ll lick you unclean.

It don’t have to be the Ritz, honey,
just flip them sheets!

You’re my kinda guy,
my kinda goon
to wear to bed.

Though we were not dying,
we were
plenty dead.

 

I ate a lot of McDonald’s before committing suicide.

On the record.

 

 

 

 

 

The Qu❤❤n of Spines, Esq.

I keep my heart so close to my chest,
where the ham hocks marinade luxurious.

Your love is so boys’ draws.

Your asphyxiation with wrestling.

We held each other,
armed in armed,
how I froth at the concept.

I met him one
ha, way
ha ha.

I sad, I love you,
and he sad.

He died
blowing his mind
to pieces,
when we are such
blood.

Roses are red, violence are blue
in the flower bed between the two
staircases.

After blowing our minds
to pieces, there
is bliss.

The happy birthdays,
and the psychotic tremors,
and the eyes adrift.

My, oh my, what a stuffy apocalypse.

Radiant vanilla silk feet amour,
gay milk fancy—
two hosed.

With this schwing, I do thee.

Not utterly
surprising, but glad for
the getting.

I’ll hit you where the poodle Januarys.

And then the precisely
brilliance.

There is such a thing as a
dilly-dalliance.

When in roam,
let’s cut our dreams
some slack.