#also like 80's jazz fucking rules the title came to me given my inclination to music

[sacrilegious-skeletal-scribe]

the 1980’s employed some very solid brass musicians 

and you’re purring at my ankles like the world’s ending

(and) 

(well)

and a tv show from six (twelve) (forty) 

years ago

is playing in the other room, and my brother is making the kind of noises one makes at pin-up calendars, or old cars

and there are three men in boxer-shorts and the kind of palette you don’t get from a modern film camera

i laugh at him and he yells at me

and two of the guys in boxer shorts are eye-fucking so intently i’m kind of astounded they got it on television 

and you say something undignified by my ankles

and i bend over to pet you, letting my fingers curl around yours ears

you permit this just long enough to bat your eyelashes at me

then bite my foot and run off

and my brother’s laughing at me, and i make aggrieved noises in your direction 

and for moment my home is filled with safety and easy warmth

and my lashing mood swings settle down for the night

(blood welling up between my fingers, ruby red and nauseous)

i snarl at you affectionately on my way past

and tape a couple bandages across my new puncture marks, heart full