tasha hefford

Grotesque, but in the way of an
empty mall, Jack Johnson gummed through
speakers half-dead, I text the
linoleum ‘u up?’ and it responds ‘lol ded’
imagine venus in hell,
all you have to do is pay attention

if we’re telling the same story over and over,
will it open us in different ways?

with my entire face i’m inventing
a life that feels like living
nothing aches
like it should, nothing exists without reference
to what it isn’t: powerpop and
an industrial-strength gunmetal sunrise,
yea you’re a winter, which means
you don’t suit party clothes.

The Kill is playing over someone’s CoD
killcam montage, a pog-sipping
teenager dreams of paradise.
A decision or a misdirection,
either seems like a good life

In-game midnight there are hands
pulling from chests, the abandoned mansion
sat prom-date eager under a moon
pointelled, its doors popped open
avatars posing for each other
like guards at the MoMA, bored
by modern art

a rollercoaster made of birch
develops a fixation, gleaming vectors of
anxiety crop the screen
squeaked by
a fake week. So who cares
if I’m ugly? What happens now?

I’m going to type it with
flowers — not only will I stare,
I will watch from the inside as
if from the outside. You are wrong
for not equipping a boat. You are
wrong for spinning in circles, X games mode
loyal sophomoric, all extra sad.

Let me tell you; it’s all form
without story, plausible deniability
and flame-crusted text.