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1. |
LinkedIn
02:22
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Every moment strikes like a dagger, every moment since you’ve kept mum. (I ordered a pint of lager and I waited for you to come.) I haven’t not checked the content of my inbox a single minute of the past 72 hours, and your answer still isn’t in it. Baby, I read the bio on your LinkedIn profile page; the skills that you have for hire; your location and your age. I thought about sending a message to you through that hopeless channel, but instead I applied to be a copywriter for SNL, where I’m gonna get really famous— I’m gonna meet Jimmy Fallon. I’m gonna stop writing letters to you, wasting all my talent.
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2. |
Armageddon
02:01
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Have you given up on me? Was I too wild in my fantasy? Were you looking for some heavy petting instead of Armageddon? Did my death drive drive you mad? Did I make you be a bad boy? Were you looking for comfy bedding instead of Armageddon?
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3. |
Idaho
01:02
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I don’t know just where we’re going, babe; and I don’t know where you’ve been. Idaho is where your show is tonight as I swallow medicine. And all I know is Idaho. All I know is Idaho. All I know is Idaho; I’m the ho who wants you, again.
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4. |
The Laundromat in Boise
02:28
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He tapped his fraying kicks over the whir of the spin cycle and the fading final lick of “Faith” by George Michael. He flipped through I Love Dick, which he’d borrowed from the girl whose vitals he’d left sticking to his fly for all the world to eyeball. He flicked on his right blinker at the sign for the riverbank and stripped stark naked on the rocks and wadded up his tank top and chucked the pair of slacks he’d worn exclusively that week which the laundromat in Boise had neglected to adequately bleach.
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5. |
2042
01:54
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In 2042 I’ll still be so in love with you; we’ll be the most attractive 53-year-olds on 42nd street; you’ll run a periodical, and I’ll have toured the modern world enchanting every stage with songs I wrote for you at thirty-three. In 2022 I’ll write this stupid song for you; we’ll be the most obnoxious 33-year-olds on Bushwick Avenue; you’ll write for periodicals, and I’ll cite embryonic solitary ruminations the results of which are inconclusive. But I don’t give a fuck; no, I don’t care if it’s bad luck to vocalize imaginary dividends we shan’t accrue. So take this march and take this June, and take this corny little tune and shove it up your amygdala. I’ll be there to meet you soon.
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Katy the Kyng New York
Katy the Kyng is a composer and guitarist.
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