happy mother's day bitch!

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yndi halda

i'm a fish
cold-blooded and small
wearing a pea coat
of slime and scales
swimming in a big gulp cup.
a melted blue slushie
tainted with stale cigarette butts
resting on a brick storefront ledge.
i don't extract oxygen
out of the thick syrupy fluid.
stirring the flakes of ash
with my translucent fins and tail,
i practice making out
with my piss and pellets of shit.
dreaming of the ocean.

a teenager wearing earmuff headphones
walks down the street
mouthing the lyrics of biggie smalls
and slaps the cup off the ledge.

the cup (my home)
is flattened by the bottoms of shoes.
blue liquid diluted with black and brown
spreads across the pavement
as bubbles form and flow
towards the storm drain
built into the street corner.

i don't make it.

instead,
i flail on the sidewalk
and enjoy eternal bliss.

ON FIRE, NO MERCY.

I am ON FIRE—like NBA JAM on the gameboy circa '95— and I'm showing defenders made out of green and black lines NO MERCY.

Channeling Penny Hardaway, Grant Hill, and Alonso Morning.

I will burn the fucking net down, before my body turns to ash due to self-immolation.

Just like Pompeii. 

Everything.

ON FIRE.

NO MERCY.