Fuckheads Is the Auto-correction

Am I a creep 'cause I don’t have a chosen pronoun?
Am I a creep because my mind is the Odeon of the multiverse?
How you bragged your length of legs by insisting to walk to Midtown
Microchips looking miserable in a Greenpoint gallery
I bounced between bars full of ink alone as a pinball yes that alone
Now your long haired friend is looking for his cocaine
And I’m happy my drinks not empty as long as there’s something left in the
glass you don’t look like an alcoholic
She sometimes/always appears to be plural I oversing ambivalence
Ovary venom as a first confession
Now that she shaved her head we’re all one big comb over
He developed a craving for impotent men who peacock themselves invisible and
being very ugly for tips
Gentrification of libido self-titled just like New York City itself
Ragout the streetware of horsemanship I can dance with you
We took too much bitter anonymous performative abuse and now we can’t sleep
She changed her name by one letter leaving nothing to discretion
Fuckheads is the new preferred auto-correction
Every idea is aquatic life no thought is the sea
That’s the only tear I’ve never cried it cried for me
Gray babies ululating outside the afternoon door
Horror vacui conversation I don’t adore mi amor