Wild ’93

Wild 2003year, we laughed into you like Wrestlemania and the faces and the hair that framed faces that held big glasses and the colorful shirts. Potatocrowd noises Like a WWF ring playset covered in superheroes flying, attacking, prolonged Practice Readypreparedness. I’ll come over after the next match and I’ll never stop. We’re forever around. Don’t kick me out of your my bedroommost secret zone w/ posters. I don’t want to drape myself in your father’s nightshade of sports equipment. I don’t want to hide in your mother’s medicinal tile and plant pillow fortress or my couchfortress. Just the one. But I always hated black and white tile and I always felt nauseas in waxen spotlights. I always like Michael Jacksonyou and the way you feel. They saw me leave. And they asked me about school and if I’d lost weight and if I knew even though Hulk Hogan had won the belt again. I decline in every way. I want to be your VCR. I want to be your drop top lo-fi. I want to be your MEM like a man. I want to kiss you like Rowdy Roddy Piper. Or not. Or.

We’re not

not special.

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