My drunk dreams
are astounding.

I wake up
at four
in the am.

have a smoke.

Then go back to sleep,
still tipsy.

Judy Greer
makes it to the farthest
reaches of my imagination,
and I must save her
from
a
man
with a hundred
groping hands.

A girl with a spirit
full of the ripest sunrises
in their peaches,
pinks
and plums
must be told
that it is ok
to be this sad
in the morning.

When there is no reason,
and night is crying
over
its demise.

I must take her from the sky,
to take her to my bed,
where we lay naked
having never ******,
but because it's much easier
to tell the truth
when skin is touching.

It is much easier
to feel human,
when you are touching
them
unadulterated.

I must rescue
the world in my dreams,
I must eradicate
disrespect
and
cat-calls.

I am the defender
in my dreams.

Why is it that I dream of saving women,
because I have been told
to do so?

Or because
I am doing what comes natural?

Or maybe
I am just hurt,
and when I am hurt,
I want to save people.

This is the time of year
for lovers to break,
for rounds of applause
to burn
the
lives of millions
into a caucophony
of happiness
and unity,
for the sun to turn
over
in the sky
and get closer
with the Earth
becuase heat
is drunk love,
for clouds
to fall
and get skinny
as they writhe on the earth
and the earthworms
wiggle to the surface
for a drink,
this is the time of year
for maggots,
for destruction,
for putrefaction,
for decay,
just becuase it's getting hotter,
doesn't mean its getting cleaner,
the vultures circle
when the smell of meat
travels on thermals.

This is the time
to make plans
in order to break them,
when we make love on the beach
and get sand in our genitals,
it is because we cling to each other
far too easily,
and this time of year
will remedy
our attachment.

Spit it out, why don't you,
say that this time of year
is better
for self-loathing
and hatred
than sunny skies
and ice cream that drips
for days.

Once he's out on the open road again,
the glittering lights
devastate him.

Reminds him, too much,
of the woman who's left behind
nursing a half-glass of wine
on the porch,
eyes glossy and red,
mascara the gauntlet runner.

She's finally saying goodbye
to his sorry behind.

She hates him. Cut and clean.
"Get your ****, you need to leave."

"If you stay here, I'm calling the cops."

She whips out the phone, taps in the number
shoves it in his face.

She plays no games,
no ***** given today.

A baby bump, bumped its ugly head
into him.

Sleeping some nights, on the soft shell,
he could hear it too.

A murmur here, a murmur there,
a murmur everywhere.

She dreams of the days on the beaches,
the crystals on the clear blue,
the screeching silks careening through the sky,
the canary diamond cradled by the waves.

The good ole days
before disgust
ruined her heart against him.

The gorged days of Fall,
burning, passionate nights of Winter,
glorious victories of Spring.

One night, he flipped out,
left the house heaving
and didn't come back
for awhile.

But the nail driven
couldn't be un-driven.

Before he turned the ignition--
for thirty minutes--
he picked a blister on his thumb
until it bled.

Without you,
I am alone again,
and each moment
feels like a dry fever.

I go to sleep
in fits of time,
a few hours
here
and
there,
scattered like bouys.

When I feel happy
its because I'm in the desert
and
that's the kind of happy
you feel.

I swear,
Gnat
had two moods,
crazy
and angry,
one time
she punched me in the face,
and I smacked her,
and smacked her again
until we were spooning
on the couch
and she cried
as a lavaflow of tears
fell on my wrists.

But then
she had this mood
where she'd
clutch me,
through my ribs
to my heart,
and we'd love each other
so hurtfully
that I'd die
every time she touched me.

She grabbed my heart
so viciously,
and consequentially,
that I just wanted to die
in her fingertips.

Know that my
heart
is
quick.

Understand
that it has movements
like a fish,
spurring
to the next
bubble
of oxygen
in an ocean
deep
without it.

I move as soon
as I know the love
of that bubble
has been ****** dry
by ***** gills.

I want to know how you're doing
because I care about you
deeper than love,
because friendship
is greater than love
in my book.

You can choose your friends.

Not your lovers.

So,
I hope
someday you call
to talk
about writing,
because when I said
I loved you,
it meant,
I love our friendship,
and I ****** it up
that night
we made lips
into gestures
of companionship.

Take a second
and remember
what I said,
that friendship
is greater than love.

That the bubble
is never
greater
than
the
ocean.

I want you to be all right,
because a second
in the library
is greater
than
love
daily,
to me.

I want to hold you tight
in the palms
of understanding,
and not
let you go
in the discipline
of youthful breaking.

You could take
thunder apart
with your teeth.

Lightning
doesn't know
the light
of
your
mouth.

When we finally talked again,
me and Gnat
were cordial.

I was finally happy
that she
was
happy.

She said,
"I really am in love this time."

And it felt good
because
I'd known she'd finally
found it.

And that the verses
of my poetry
couldn't reach her,
like the symphony
of the exquisite
symphony
of his
could.

I love Gnat,
because
she is in love
and
happy.

I find happiness
in the fact
that a girl
I constantly ****** over
is now in for the ride of her life;
a ride full of ups and downs
highs and lows,
but a love
that can resist
a rollercoaster.

I am finally happy for the love
of my life,
and they don't tell you in the movies
that you can be happy for the love of your life
when they're in love
and staring down the
barrel of eternity
not thinking of it as a gun
but
thinking of it as true
real
love.

And that's what Gnat has.

And I'm so happy.

I think
you are so beautiful
Heather,
that I could search for clams
on the beach
and only find fish.

I am unhappy with fish,
they are too stupid.

But your open mouth,
and the pearl
of its tongue,
is just too much.

You have a ******* boyfriend,
with a ******* mustache,
and flannel
two sizes
too small.

My heart is big enough.

I could eat you in a gulp.

Your heart could be dinner
for days,
most likely years,
and if I could just taste
your complexion
I
might finally know heaven,
even as I talk about it
too much.

If I go to Hell soon,
I would tread the fiery waters,
fight the three-headed dogs
and a burgeoning Cerberus,
for the touch
of your skin.

Aphrodite is not beautiful,
neither is
Zeus,
you are the goddess
that puts
all else to shame.

I had so many purses
of night
that i couldn't sweat her.

I couldn't feel warmth
even in the embrace
satan
made
when he held me
in his sweater.

Hell could catch me for a thousand reasons,
I might be a sinner,
I might **** a man if need be.

But my heart
is made from a century
of hate.

A century of racism,
telling me that the white girl I loved,
was probably getting *****
when we ******
and made love
on the side.

So what can I say,
when I go on journeys
against Hades,
trying to pull life
from the depths
like Orpheus' stupid ***
couldn't do
for
Eurydice.

I'll never do it again,
this is where
the heart the begins.

In hell,
trying to make
sense
of the devil
and calling her
to make amends
for my sins
with girls
with a ***** smell like vanilla.

Blandness is a disease,
I can **** a thousand of them
with ease.

Ease is the son
of lazyness
and I've gotten careless.

I put you
over my shoulder
like a spooled
rope.

Twisted too many
directions,
a little tug
and you might go
anorexically
thin;

too taut for me
to yank anymore.

And when you come to me
drunk,
a *****
of yelling,
I think of those times
when we sat close together,
barely touching.

In those days,
we were both drunk
and bitter over forever.

Beers chased liquor
over steeples;
we dropped dimes of pain
over smoked ****
and bleeding anger.

Time languored,
and eventually
or anger
stymied.

When you cried
twisted beyond
compare,
I held you close,
sniffed your hair.

People hurt each other because they can,
and we lay
on a mattress of your canned hopes.

I would never be a prince charming,
even when I groped
you;
when we were tossing each other,
fighting like ghosts do:
bad jabs,
quiet knives,
softer moans.

So, I curled you
over me;
beneath my earlobe,
as your whistled tears
drained energy.

Our synergy was syphoning
each other's
pain;
coiling nooses around our hearts
and kicking out the chairs
holding up our underneath souls.

I think
your back still arcs
like a feather.

But I still called you *****
from time to time.

When you put your eyeliner
on, I thought of different dreary places
where darkness could reside
peacefully.

Dream catchers litter too many of the beds
we have occupied.

When I hear about your new best friend,
I want him to know that you
know how to pull teeth out with your tongue.

The creamy bowl of the clouds
laundered the sky, pulling pollution
against the washboard of our love;
and your legs were always open underneath the table,
waiting for my fingers
jaundiced by nicotine.

Sometimes u didn't know if
no
was the right word.

No
was the right word.
it would have retained
both of our
sanity's
even in vanity.

It seems that
no
is the better kind of stain
than
yes
and all of its incumbent pain.

No
would have been better
than twenty-five feet of intestines
being tugged constantly..

Better then
the peeping heart
and
broken warbles.

Better than matinees.

Better than
runways
and
leaving landing gear
on my heart.

Better than
love itself.

In the alcoves I hunt for mystery
and pleasure. Seeking your joy. I hope
to break you to the core,
and make you crumble to all my love.
Id hope your days are perforated silences,
my voice a trickle of whiskey.
I treasure your absence,
thinking to myself, with a cigarette.
I sip down evan williams
Pretending not to hurt,
but with a hurricane
your surge through me.

My
dreams
don't
dream
themselves
lazily
to sleep.

They
thrash
me
with
truth.

She's
been
cheating
all
night.

She's
been
crying
all
night.

I've
been
crying
all
night­.

I
wish
I
could
go
somewhere
where
the
sun
shines
the
whole
nig­ht
through.

You fall in love with a man
who's in love with his disguise.

He wears a black suit, black tie,
covers himself in glory, his eyes the starry sky.

In his bed, the book is written.
faithful lover, he authors your prison.

You cling to the book of his love,
singing its melancholic words.

In his black suit, black tie,
his scorn covers you in bruises, blackens your eye.

But the book, you still read
even after he leaves, and the love is dead.

You're disgusted by those lines,
losing faith in all of mankind.

You'll find yourself in time,
but one day again, you'll become the man in the suit and tie.

I am
a memory,
like the sweet sugar
of justice.

The tiniest droplets of my presence,
raining down from this frozen sky,
are so insignificant to your tongue,
as to make me important.

And I wish I  was.

Wishing like
a flower,
a seedling underneath the permafrost,
hardened against winter,
harder for summer.

The impure line
of your 1950s body
is all curves and no nonsense.

No holding back those valleys of flesh
the pools of sweat lambent in your thighs
with the reflections of a thousand firefly's eyes.
No pain in that extra
on your pelvis.

A few pounds more,
is a few roses less, less bulllshit.

Sometimes your lips become chapped,
caked by the dryness of conversation
and the impropriety of self-consciousness
and I like to kiss them,
because mine are chapped,
and i'm so self-conscious,
so worried about that other couple
in the corner.

When we are in the dark room
of each other's arms,
and I could kiss you but don't,
or when I could grab your ***
but won't,
I keep my arms around your waist
and pull you tight, warm, and close,
just to taste the sourness of
stale deodorant,
washed away perfume,
and your old milk breath,
because you're gaining some weight
and I want to savor this heat
for licking away those lambent pools of sweat
on your tiny back,
grand piano waist,
and the crack of your ***.

Ecstasy. Ecstasy. I'm losing it
just thinking about Cosmo burning.

I just want to meet poets.

The ones
in
the clubs
not
made for poetry.

The one's who
reside
in places
where
their thighs are places
for grinding.

The one's that push dudes off
without malice.

I want to meet the poets
at the bar,
taking in all their ears can handle,
because someday
they will
write it all down.

I want to meet the poets
in the middle of divorce,
becuase the pain of separation;
is a fissure of
love.

Poets in their cars
at five in the afternoon
with the windows open,
because carbon dioxide
builds in the system
and a greenhouse
of hope
may
be
feeding
unborn seeds.

I just want to meet poets.

**** the *******
And all the noise
That harrowing guilt
It holds you down
Flowers!#@ always wilt
Always lose patience
For the sun
Love me now
But love me not
:] :]
We truck through
Just to truck through
:l :l
Love just to be loved to
???
It's easy to love
Uneasy to be
Loved.

:l
:l

Travelling down a broken, dark highway,
delight bending.

Cops pulsing behind us,
in the rearview,
creamed by streetlamps;
the cars
whittle to bad stars behind us.

No hot humans allowed on the road
tonight,
and it's foggy in the dashboard,
the dictum of the reepers.

"Where do you find
these
broads?"

I don't know.

But i find them
so that I can love them.

So that I can love them
until it hurts
and I am left with a stinging
pain.

So many wasps have stung me
before.

I have placed the royalty of their stingers
in the waste
of heart break.

The knives are finally out,
I swipe at a million hives,
until I have finally cut the wings
of one.

The sadnessss$%!&!!
Inside is barely assuaged
By the makings of a new day,
The sun filtered through the river of clouds,
The love curtain hanging from my window,
To my cheeks is barely alive,
Barely breathes morning,
The room shrouded in this lifeless glow
A gray, drowned pallor
And i didn't get drunk last night
And blast the night with fury
But my sadness$!@@#$!!! Kept me
Up
All
Night.
And a true friend doesn't just keep you down,
They get down with you.
And in the morning when she is gone,
The sun does not greet me,
Merely a showing of face.
A courtesy. A head nod.
A flip of the hand.
Flicka da wrist.
A wraith hanging back in the mist.

E.J. pulls the last one out of the box,
slowly now,
with his forefinger
and thumb.

The fore
is square.

Almost cut.

Like he'd taken a box-cutter
to it after inhaling
all that BUD Light
in that dangling,
shimmying
hose in the truck.

The thumb is normal.

He lifts the Pall to his lips
with the deliberateness
of a crane operator
laying the last brick,
before the whole thing
burns to the ground
in fluttering, liquid ashes.

The fore is useless,
so square
that the **** dangles
even when he pinches it.

And E.J.
looks down at it with those watery
fire-choked dog-blue
eyes
and
exhales a
spectre.

Truthfully,
being alone in bed
*****;
I hate waking up
to myself
and nothing like you.

Nothing like your hair.
Your sweet and sour smell of ripe peaches;
Morning breath of cigarettes.

I think about
living in Alaska a lot more
now
than I did then.

I think about trailers with furniture
made by stacking old mattresses
and oil-burning lamps
and suns that die forever
and live forever.

I am searching for
equilibrium.

It is not enough
to stomp on our hearts;
It is worse to stomp
on the ground we find beautiful.

I miss you
girl
with the hair that smells
like sweet beer
and
breath
like iron.

I am anemic
and brutal
without you.

Like pent-up rage,
a demon
in its cage
hungry for
a mouthful
it has not
had in days.

a mouth not
its own filled
to the brim.

worked on

And she looks at me,
and I know,
it's done.

And she looks at me,
and I know.

The worst part of it all,
is that her eyes look the same
now
as they did
then,
but she just doesn't look at me
the same.

What a shame.
A **** shame.

And She looks at me
seeing all the things I've done,
and there's no going back
now.
And that's a shame.

Love is a shameful thing.

I love my mother
like the prodigal son,
she introduced me
to activism,
and where I'm at now
I can't release it,
even as we went
to the Lincoln Homes and Estates
to set up computers,
to give people that look like me
a chance.

I remember the older
dudes would tell me
to keep my head up
even when I was down.

There is a heart
in
"da hood"
as the white people
around me put it.

There are fathers
pushing strollers.

There are mothers
making it
against all odds.

There are families
decreasing,
but
increasing.

There are computers
full with words
and poetry
and novellas.

There are black children
picking up books
more than guns.

Picking up basketballs
more than guns,
and why should they be
labeled
as less intelligent?

****,
they just want to get
out
and achieve
and it's wrong
that you say that's the wrong way.

I hate going to funerals
for faces
with cheekbones still heavy
with baby fat.

And don't love me
for telling you this,
don't love me
for being that "black guy
that talks about problems
in the ghetto,
da hood!"

Change it,
go there,
help people,
hand out books
to children.

There is nothing scarier
than ignorance.

Even when I think
of you,
I think of you.

As we ****
our souls
touch the bottoms
of the river
where pirannahs lie
in wait.

Noisy
Noisy
Nosey
You hate to know
But
Love
          It


               Still.

When there's that couple
Sitting in the bar next to you,
And they are
Yammering
Yammering
Yammering

:0 :0

You want to scream
IT IS NOT REAL!!

...but don't
Because you have pushed away all that is real...
And don't even know anymore.

I've got a date
with the devil,
she never wears stilletos,
just a pair of chucks
and them lee dungarees,
if I order a drink for myself
I have to order one for her.

"Are you going to drink that?"
I ask.

It's just been sitting there for awhile,
so warm and hungry.

"No,"
she says,
and her eyes are already pocked
with burst blood vessels,
already glassy with my soul,
she's got it now.

So I take it,
and take everything she's got to give.

Which is a lot,
considering.

love doesn't end
like piano keys
across an array,
the dream of a body
and a mind,
across the spray
of the ocean
and a memory
of kisses
shared in the screen
of a heart's blinding display,
i have hoped for a long time
for a bridging of time,
a feeling of the stomach
and it's dramamine
against hope.

So much sadness
resides
in my palms.

I rest my head there
in a pose of thought.

I position the gun of my mind
against the bomb
of my heart.

Heather,
I could fall
into
your
brown eyes.

I really could.

Time's not waiting
on
any
man.

So,
with that little ***
and littler
voice,
trust me
when i'm saying
I could talk to you for days
as your body became
nothing.

I fall in love easily,
let's hope this one
has a stamp
of truth.

heather,
with the long
brown
hair.

heather
with the long,
brown
voice.

heather
with the long,
brown
legs.

let me be redundant,
let me
be
unequivocal
in the recitations
of my heart,
when I say,
I'm feeling you
and my knuckles
could burn
as I grip
the soft limestone
holding me
from
your
eyes.

Battalions of rust
make war
on the Old Ford pick-up.

It becomes a sculpture
of
sunrise.

All the things that make a person
Feel home, not unamused,
Not Bewildered, not beholden
To another place and time,
They did not come back with me on that plane ride,
Maybe i thought i'd dropped a peice of me,
Over the atlantic,
And i'd get it back coming home,
But no, i am there
Not here,
My stare is blank sometimes
I know,
there is nothing there.
I laugh, for all the wrong reasons,
I am not here,
Not present,
I'm laughing at tragedy,
The tragedy of  self left behind.
I drink, to get drunk
And let loose let loose of everything.
I drink to rage it out,
To yell, to cry through madness.
To fight and be fought.
To lose and lose again.
To not have anything,
And think i'm deserving.

Temper tantrums everyday,
the baby
I have become
is the same one that
pukes up mommy's love.

See,
lil ma
got me
on the switch,
she questioned my intentions
thought I was up to no good,
but all I wanted was a single parent love,
something
that could withstand pain
and nourish
a broken heart
like mine
all by its lonesome.

I just wanted you to see the other
side,
because I spend to much time
on mine.

I dictate how mean I can be,
but as always
we got into arguments
and consequently
you took the baby
between us
and held it away from me.

Not a baby
of flesh,
but a baby of love,
morphed into an adult
of
scorn.

So now what do we do
with this wild child
in our midst?
do we throw our hands up?
or do we put our middle fingers down
and hold each other's shoulders
like lovers should?

Carmen's legs
are pixilated cerulean.

Rubbing beasts
that itch at untouchable
bruises beneath her skin.

Her computer is on.

She rests crossed legs
on its desk.

There's something sticky about her skin.

Carmen's date is calling,
her speakers make a sound
like **** plopping in a toilet.

The webcam blinks
like Sauron's eye.

Carmen has never had
any of the cards
in her hands.

Not a whiff of a queen of hearts
or a jack
of all trades.

It seems she's been slipping for awhile now,
in her black room, colored
by the glow of some
techni-cyclops'
cavernous mouth,
crimson, heart-shaped teeth,
and scythe tongue.

She has never known the war machine
of love,
or the war machine of self-determinism.

Now she does,
her compudate buzzes on-screen.

Tiny sprouted pixels
jump into a constantly
buzzing whole.

He's got a bored face,
and Carmen knows this is the look
of the generation.



Carmen lifts her legs from the desk.

Puts her hands on her lap.

Licks her lips.

She wants to know
what lowered human beings
do when they are restless.

She is seeking something
moreso
philosophical
than
******.

"Bored, much?"

Carmen asks sardonically.

He took it literally.

He jumped at attention.

"Oh, no,
now that I've seen you."

"How do these things work?"

"Well, I guess we talk to each other,
and if you like me
then we go from there."

And to Carmen this was reticence,
this was blasphemy.

She had the cards in her hands,
finally.

Carmen's legs are pixilated  high cerulean.

Cerulean the color of
a tiger ocean,
****** cakes,
slushies,
a sun-****** sky,
a corpse. Skin against a computer screen.

This is not a bar
for the optional. This
is not a place for the unknown.
This is a place amongst the fire
and iron. This is the home
of tumbling mongerers
and life-dulled addicts;
of the hope-filled dull
and drone of life.

I have taken the drink of spasm with you,
and tasted the wine of dehydrated breath
and loss.

I, in my hopelessness,
was hopeful
and angry.

We were.

And i've drowned it all, with the racists
and nubients, rednecks,
how I love you *******.

Take my calming down
as love.
Take my Wilding out
as truth,
and hear the scream of my useless crush.

Little lady,
your comforts are poison,
you never return my love
and I am constantly hurt,
wishing you were here
in the birth of my confusion.

In the midst of a moonlight ****,
I lied to myself,
and said we were making love.

The universe unfurled,
and your body liquified
in the heat of the moment.

I just wish no one
would know
that I'm crying.

That i'm inside
this lonely house
and I'm putting on different suits
just to get through.

I just wish you'd take me back,
just wish you'd give me one more chance
because you've got a hold on my heart
and it just won't let go.

Touch me with a kiss
or hand print on my soul,
I don't know know what it means to love,
but for me,
it's defined by the threat
of this super-massive black hole.

You **** me in,
and I want to let go of my light,
for the last second
of my life.

Love fills me up
and I water the garden
desperately.

With dead petunias on the floor
I crawl on my knees
just wishing for them to grow.

I'm trying to move on;
I wish you'd get the ****
out
of
my head.

I want to force love on another,
when the words
are lost because
they
are words
meant for you.

I want to take
your misery
and make a cake.

I want to be the candles
dripping wax
over you heart.

I want to be the heat
of knowledge.

*******,
I'm ******
up.

I saw her
walking from the bodega
and it was hotter
than a tick
cradled under my *****,
and from there the fire
spread.

I was listening
to life
after
death,
had that **** on BLAST,
and she was carrying groceries
in the crook of her arms,
plastic bags
swinging
in response to the weight of each other.

Back and forth,
until I thought they might
just get ideas
and run away together.

And right there,
with my windows down;
my eyes on her,
hers on the concrete,
I wanted a forty,
cause forties clear my head
and my conscience
was banging me in the side of my head
like two bags
full of loaded groceries
on
frail arms.

You know What?

You're going to go

outside

and have a smoke

and think

you'll feel better about yourself
and the direction
your life's headed in
for once.

For once in your life
you'll be proud
of yourself.

And then that nicotine
hits you quick.

Get jumpy.

Get agitated.

And you realize this
whole love *******,
you realize this
whole career *******,
you realize this
whole happiness *******
is just

TOURETTE'S.

Randy was drunk and high
and skipping school.

She'd sipped on a few too many sips
of crown royal,
and that wasn't the reason
but she says,
"that didn't help."

Javaughn picked her up
beside the chinese place.

"You want to go back to your place?"
he asked.

"whatever,"
she said as they passed
a fat blunt,
fat with the demise
of depression.

They wound up in her room,
him taking her clothes off,
her saying no
in her mind.

So drunk and high
she couldn't say anything
but saying no
in the asylum of her mind,
the peaceful place.

But she said no.

"I gotta finish," he said.

NO she yelled.

But it was colorless.

And she receded into a space
of novas,
a space where bodies exploded
into a web of elements;
a web of objectivity,
of lost usage.

He pushed and pushed
and it hurt her more and more
as she saw his nostrils bending
more and more.

He continued his huffing,
no she said,
placing his hands on his chest,
no,
she said,
placing her hands
on the echo of his heart.

But he continued,
he had to finish,
and he did.

laying there huffing and puffing
human
he did,
as she lay
with a t-shirt still on
and ******* wet with pain,
crying in her mind
of the cosmos,
the paint of objectivity
and lost humanity.

He left,
and she stayed,
locking the elements
in her heart,
like the trapped carbon
of earth.

And so she cried
and I held her
as she told me,
because I did not know
what else to do.

What are we doing?
Why must she cry?
Why can't everything
be all right?

Because it is not.

the heart is not an easy
thing
to
devour.

The black of darkness
is a black
that's not easy to conquer.

And you have
brought troops
with superior artillery,.

Leaden stars crossed her eyes,
and she has told me
she will only love him.

I have had a few hidden tears
in that stolen bed of dreams;
and she sleeps with my kisses:
a reminder of betrayal.

It is six in the morning,
here,
and I am lazy drunk.

I get out the bed '
and leave her
krunk
on maddened sadness.

I freaked out for
bout
five minutes.

My bottle was gone,
and I couldn't find
it,
and
*******
I'd climb Robert Plant's tongue
to get to heaven
to **** god
if  my bottle was gone.

But it wasn't.

It was at my feet,
and I'd freaked out.

I gotta get warm
in any form,
or else
my stomach
sinks
to my intestines
and my heart
gets a lil weak.

I need WIld Turkey
to keep me going,
I need you to know
that I'm insane
in some ways
and it feels like
nobody
knows what I'm saying.

My brain is stagnant horns,
just fat as Louie Armstrong's cheeks,
and
I'm a sardine
on your tongue
waiting to be spit out
to plastic oceans
instead of
acid chambers.