We are spaceheaded and writing poetry after dawn of insane thunderstorms. We are the thaumaturgical dog fosterers of peach tossing Brooklyn. We are not flamboyant or imposterous or violent unless the situation demands. We are not going to slip anything into your drink. Except if it’s colored pink. We go cruising every Saturday night, two up front and two in back down Cortelyou Road, looking for costume stores for dogs. We stole away with your dates and made out with them on the fifty yard line when you passed out after senior prom. We order one strawberry shake and two straws. We are the post-apocalyptic poets and we read poetry on the first Tuesday of every month at Sycamore.
post-apocalyptic
grandchildren of whitman & dickinson
post-apocalyptic 