You’ve got too much

goddamn poetry

in you, baby.

I can’t swallow it all,

it’s black and wet and gets stuck in my throat.

You think you’re a rock star,

so many verses,

four minutes ’til we die.

I know now that the sun explodes like

every other star,

that we are going to burn up, baby.

I know that we get old now,

or never do.

I know I’ll find you on Mars, I’ve just got to make it.