Yep. Shrodinger's cat is outta the box. My clit likes it cerebral. Be it books or stars or my twat, a man should have his head in somethin'.

Just had a crazy dream. I was tweeting for your dead grandma. She didn't tell
me to tell you she loves you but I'm sure she totally does.

Facebook is a prolonged High School Reunion. A terrible torture that people subject themselves to willingly and daily.

In retrospect the penis-shaped popsicles may not have been the ideal potluck for the family reunion.

My demon wants to frolic in a tutu of pink-grapefruit hue, while honing lewd poems, stomping puddles & throwing kisses like ninja stars.

With it's measly 140, Twitter is like your penis: sometimes it's enough for me but not always.

Truth is, I only care about stars so much as they signify a reader. Each star for each set of eyes that paused long enough to take it in.

Waking repeatedly, like from Russian nesting dolls of dreams.

I did not have fun.
I did not wang-chung.

And now I curl up in the bed that turns to a boat which floats in an ocean of minds under a sky that shines by the light & likes of you all.

I love that my iPhone auto-corrects hashtag and changes it to hashish. I'm like awl-right! Now we're talking! Livin right in the real world!

When I'm dropped for being lewd, nasty or radical I'm reminded -- yet again -- that Twitter is a self-cleaning organism. Just like vagina.

I'm that cat that curiosity keeps killing.

Truth be told, I like my men to be a bit beasty. I'm attracted to the mythic monster.

Id and Ego fell in love. Id sez Ego is full of himself. Ego sez Id is a high-maintainance ho with a taste for vice.

Was dumped on facebook by an old hs friend for ignoring his "poke." Poor dude. Musta brought back bad memories from highschool.

I miss our sunrise motorcycle rides, I miss yer foppish get-ups, I miss yer
trickster ass getting us thrown out, I
miss yer anarchy.

Allow me. Buttercup, up yer butt. Bees, between yer knees. There. That's better. Y'like that, dontcha, haiku-slut? Poetic justice. Served.

If, at 4:20 pm, you find yourself in a car outside of the crowded yuppery grocery, listening to hits of the 80's, you haven't planned well.

I'm disturbed by those swiffer ads where dirt & filth are personified as women.