What Time is It?

To unhand the true
takes a sort of glissade.

You run down my hands
in a funny sort of way.

That sounded wrong,
so wrong. I know.

I'm gonna plant flowers
clearly sissy Turks

in my garden. The War
"I LOVE..." is everywhere

just like that jaded air.
Or glam Boyfriend-Unicorn,

Unicorn-Boyfriend.
Sumpthin sumpthin.

We all die in the inevitable
Ideal City. Its walls

so obnoxiously white
we wanna suck darkness through a straw.

Like an emo in a real human bar,
it suffocates. Too late

for sleep, too early
for euthanasia.