What am I feeling?
What is this
I've always been a sucker for women
Yet I've always played
Close to the chest
Cheating the chest organs
Out of any hope
Of a future life
But I could marry you
One of my best friends
One of my best victims
I've always felt attached to
Women who are afraid of attachment
It's my curse
It's my gift
It's my all too shiny
Genie lamp
Just a rub away from
Complete dominance

Powerless power
We compete for the entire world
And end up splintered
Like fragments of matches
Burnt out shells
Of everything we thought we could be

In the burning right hand of the bald city,
denizens frame calories and count instagram blessings
while beacons of hope refund inspiration in USADA *** cups.

Abyssinian maids wail over yesterday lovers
who wore Ginsberg’s skirt with less  pizzazz
and watched bedbugs **** blood off knee caps
wondering, what if Jesus Christ drove a Nissan?

As bullets of paragraphs fall Vietnamese pesticides on my head,
The dusts off my breath sing homilies
With letters of broken leather whiskey,
For even in the most dishonest jest,
clandestine toothbrushes are overrated
and every first false lie is the only truth.

You're all the suffering I long to endure and I swear by your deep brown eyes that I'm going to try my best to make it through you because it is you I remember when I'm walking down these paved roads with streaking strange faces and I miss you really because I wanted to kiss you when you tucked my stupid note on your nostalgia corkboard and looked at me like I was all that matters but you did not come home and I hope you're not in trouble or hungry and I was supposed to see you because it's a Thursday but apparently the Universe does not feel a need to consistent today except with me still longing to kiss you and you still not being aware.

Drinking whiskey neat
ends up with sloppy drunk
sloppy moments
splashed out across our history
like paint brush splatters
everybody is high
because they are so low
and the room starts spinning
and spinning                     and spinning
  and spinning        and spinning
         and spinning
until
everythingblursintoeverything
and the night doesn't end with a bang
or a whimper
but with a jump cut
to a hung over next morning
like life is a movie

the black tarmac was still hot from the daylight
sitting there as people took turns
bombing down the driveway on metal scooters
drinking beer from multicolored solo cups
the passage of time loses meaning
there's a sense of ease to the night
a sense that we were on the right path
a sense that there was never a path to begin with
certain windows began to slowly close
and people were seen scrambling for them
not wanting to be left alone
on the inside
sleeping on a couch
alone,
with a case of beer as a pillow
and when the next morning rolls around
naked bodies pressed together
warming slowly in the morning sun
they resort to physical intimacy
to hide from any conversation
all of which is deemed
simply too awkward
and when it is all over
nothing is ever really changed
but they feel better
better for the release