Goodbye We’re Running Away From Home Try And Catch Us Nana-Nana-Na.

We narrowly miss furze season.
The deciduous carpet under our feet

acts as punctuation
to the shanties we recant:

Sittin warm by tha fire
My sister regurgitates apple chunks

When the strongest blades within reach
are grass

She feid tha man potaters and soup she made from needles
she spits apple into oatmeal, and we trek on,

toward the native fuschia of foxgloves
I slip one over my fingers and make the puppets dance

She fouwght em erry night n day n nonevem she’d marrey
Sensationalism and blowjobs!
We’re a couple of blow-ins who don’t know the way,
stopping only to till the land, crash in gaffs, lay down heads.

‘Til she fell in lorve with a fella…ne’er seen that before
We don’t lose sleep over our passions;

we don’t passion.
The others do: they wear it on their sleeves;

a stove full of dishes, a bathtub of Costco boxes.
Ageless through their possessions,

elixirs of youth in 5 ft. stacks of newspaper comics, vials of blood.
She terrorized ye old men

puttin _______ in his porridge ‘til she rolled him in the bag and she threw him in ____
Our tectonic milieu

lies far from here
and dew, a hoarder’s worst enemy, beckons.

I:
She:

too drained too easily, too much like a colander.
She feid tha man potaters an— oh, I sang that before—