substack
(p.s. drag me!!!!!)
Drew Barrymore and a Near Death Experience
Ensembled
on a NDE thread and in perfect formation, laced
with everything all at once vile and beauteous, and also, yes,
you packed snacks, and you have a kind of face akin
to Harrison Ford or Julia Roberts or Drew Barrymore, and also,
yes, you’re famous, you’re wealthy in terms of friends
or how many times you’re name-dropped, and maybe you live
in a shack or a small hut by a black sand beach, but if so,
you have a disease-ridden seagull that bring messages
from your fans all around the world, little scraps of paper
covered in scrawled script, little declarations of obsession,
vials of spit from New York and San Francisco and Milan
and Tokyo encased in your seagull’s gull dropped down
to the base of your hut, and every morning at your black
sand beach, the tide makes a point of creeping forward
to alarm you of the day beginning, of the seagull arriving,
of the NDE thread impending, and you lace your shoes
and paint your face like Harrison Ford or Julia Roberts
or Drew Barrymore would, and you pack snacks,
and you bid adieu to the coast, and you walk miles,
and you pick things up along the way, and you don’t stop
until you reach me and the NDE thread, and I scream
your name, and I say Drew, Drew, Drew. Then we embrace.
with everything all at once vile and beauteous, and also, yes,
you packed snacks, and you have a kind of face akin
to Harrison Ford or Julia Roberts or Drew Barrymore, and also,
yes, you’re famous, you’re wealthy in terms of friends
or how many times you’re name-dropped, and maybe you live
in a shack or a small hut by a black sand beach, but if so,
you have a disease-ridden seagull that bring messages
from your fans all around the world, little scraps of paper
covered in scrawled script, little declarations of obsession,
vials of spit from New York and San Francisco and Milan
and Tokyo encased in your seagull’s gull dropped down
to the base of your hut, and every morning at your black
sand beach, the tide makes a point of creeping forward
to alarm you of the day beginning, of the seagull arriving,
of the NDE thread impending, and you lace your shoes
and paint your face like Harrison Ford or Julia Roberts
or Drew Barrymore would, and you pack snacks,
and you bid adieu to the coast, and you walk miles,
and you pick things up along the way, and you don’t stop
until you reach me and the NDE thread, and I scream
your name, and I say Drew, Drew, Drew. Then we embrace.