kill quota

I think it’s funny that you’re dead and i’m still here and i’m already over
thirty we always talked about this time like it was vintage
porn it wasn’t a life i could imagine after our twenties I didn’t
want the house or clockwork eight hours here four
there type at least if I did i’d firework myself up everything kitchen sink

i think it’s funny how we stopped talking and when i found out
about your car folded into the mountain like a note, passing through a friend
of a relative you always said you hated, who kept asking when
you’d get a girlfriend and shortly after was your transition
into a good citizen, when i found out i knew that we didn’t learn

how to breathe without swallowing glass, two backseat bottles
of water, laptop humming “i’m in sleep mode”, nothing
was stolen, not even your attitude with your tongue and heart
open encrusted with slag, i think it’s funny we used to go
there before the checkpoints and kill quota, before

the cliffside stopped reflecting radio waves, where
we could become diaphanous, the city and its damned
bells processing through us so easily and what happened to everything
we talked about that we’d abandon the idea of a nation
and find us each a man or two and swap on the weekends

and i want to say i’m sorry that we were where and what we were but
all i can think after everything and still being here without a plan is that it’s funny