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sell souls to
the nicotine dogs
that gnaw on your
fingertips,

and beg for bone
as crunchy costs
of habit.
a poet’s just
one dumb *******
having the courage
to meddle
with words

far bigger than
any emotion
he’ll ever feel.

no true poet
wants to draw
butterflies
through verse;

we, the *******,
use flowing words
to boast
a ****** life.
cups of
earl gray,
cans on cans
on cans of
lukewarm beer;

to the squeals
of my guitar,
I sustain

a broken back/
a liquid diet.
drink the cold away
with lovingly boiling whiskey,

light up a couple smokes,
sit back

and feel your
eternal love
for
Black Sabbath;

smile,
stretch,
thank the Gods-

repeat.
my father
sat in his room
to the music
he later chose
to raise me
with;

now, I sit
in my room
with the music
he chose
to raise me
to.

even when
he isn’t
looking,

he still sees
the man he
used to be

and I see
the man I
will be-

to our music.
as my eyes roll to the back of my head,
I gain clarity
and tell myself-

“the Earth only spins in one direction;
no amount of delinquency
will ever
give you the power
to change that.”
when times
turn to lines,
and we deform
through indigenous
degeneration-

we, as the ones
that had time stand
perfectly still
at midnight,
between the past
and the
upcoming,

gave in to the
sloth, the
gluttony, the
pride, the
wrath, the
****, the
greed, the
envy,
and chose to
thrive
eternally,

on the
absurd.

on the absurd,
with the
cheeks and foreheads,
on the absurd
with the
black dresses, shirts
and smiles,
on the absurd,
with all its wobbling,
wishes
and hungover
mourning
in the
morning.

we gave ourselves up
to be groped by the force of time,
and time ended up
making love to us,
*******
majestically.

the table fills
with empty cups,
and we
dance
until
the cups topple,
lay a new,
crackling
plastic
carpet

underneath
our restless hearts
and
beating feet.
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