poem: living with other people’s families

while the girls were
inside, performing the small miracle of becoming
pretty (in a mauve
bathroom, shit-colored
faucets); we stood on the porch and
smoked, like

the radio songs are obsessed
with the 90s: mixtapes do not really
exist anymore, unless you
are thrashing in certain
club scenes (maybe London
or the highschool underground);
we can pull them out
of our heads, what fucking
grand metaphors, the plastic tapes
spiraling like my

while the girls were reading
murakami and sylvia
plath, we discussed these
things (like
men): the mixtapes, the 90s,
and the weird modern nostalgia
for the time just before us.
my friend said, i masturbrated
just before this, to debussy—
do you think he cares
who likes us, and why,
and how?

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