12 | sam lund

i saw you

walking on 4th ave
hair in a cinnamon bun swirl
sequined tiger on a just a bit too tight purple tshirt

the way you shook that pooper
made me wanna bust out of the bus window
and take you away from this god awful place

we’d knock off the local bank
run away to some Caribbean isle
spend the days searching for mai tais
and the nights moving our hips
to syncopated electronica

we’d wear only linen thongs and eat coconuts
we’d splash in the sea and make jokes about white people

I’d fend off would be assassins
as you giggled and teased
in that way of yours
until eventually one would come too close
maybe try to grab a feel of your delicious cocoa butter
or attempt a chew of your juicy mangoes

then, I’d kill that motherfucker in his face.


sam lund has been smuggling avocados from the sultry climes of your dirty little secrets for the last ten years. He was once pronounced dead twice in a single evening–once from a wound succumbed during a knife fight with a one-eyed monkey named Sincerity, and the other after getting a little too fresh with an Egyptian Pharaoh who, it should be noted, came on to him first. He lives somewhere and does things, but never without a clean shirt and a proper pour.