Lobster Love

lobster love

lobster love


when a lobster gets big and outgrows itself it molts

out of its old shell and then it eats it

it eats its old body that still looks like it’s always looked

and the parts of what’s left/that it doesn’t eat, it buries


beneath a pile of wet rocks or inside an old notebook

or between the back tires of Helen’s car, and shit   (hm) that’s just: weird

Helen loved lobster and her heart was always molting

so maybe there’s a connection there/or maybe there isn’t


my favorite shell that she grew out of and thereafter

immediately consumed was the one that looked like her heart

when she still loved me, but hell she’s shit that one out years ago


so: fuck, are you still going on about that shut up, I guess I’m still

going on about that some people molt faster than other regarding

certain things and apparently I’m unlovable and           I’m a slow eater

and I spend too much time missing things that have already been et



(well this poem didn’t turn out like I wanted it too but I was married

to Helen, so I’m used to that. I’m used to that happening. Maybe tomorrow

this poem will be better than it is today. Maybe it won’t. And so be it. Everyday’s

another goddamn molting. That’s the point really. Change is a virus and we’re all

infected. Nothing’s exactly like it was yesterday. But I love nature documentaries

Blah blah and more blah.)

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