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sign me up!

i’m in a fucking

human zoo making

coffee with claws

for red-faced, sweaty,

buck-toothed, botoxed

creeps who don’t tip

me enough to entertain

inane conversation. at

least my fellow animals

write, complain, gossip,

all while sipping on iced

americanos between

chugging water, and discussing

plans for outside the cage. i’m

in a human zoo, and the

sweaty schmucks that

press their lips against

the POS, ignoring the $1,

$2, $3 can kiss my ass.



i want to write a bop but i’ve got that

doom scrolling, shit your pants, nausea

vomit coming on because i finally realized i

left my comfy, tiny world behind

and all it took to realize it was

a little post on my close friends story

and i am flustered because i’ve been

in the city for four days and i have a

date tomorrow that i’ve gotta plan and

i’m probably not getting enough

vitamin D. ironically, i mean from the sun.

google best bars for under 25 near

the Dupont Circle metro stop.

i want to write a bop but i can’t because

i can’t relax enough to read or write poetry

and i can’t afford my credit card bill

and i love the silence but hate the eerie quiet

the trees don’t speak to me here the way

they did in the tiny town.

i need some electroshock therapy.

i think too much.

this is a bop, except i hate traditional form.

there is no third stanza, and only half a refrain.

the problem is not solved.


Mallory Payne (she/they) is a former peculiar barista and doting cat mom based out of D.C. You can find them lurking in a small corner of the internet on twitter @paynemal_.

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