With lulled fireside chats,
we smoked spliffs to the lyrics they inspire.
We collaborated on canvasses,
filling blank spaces
with Purple.
Neurons in one intoxicating drip of paint,
we adhere to a generally powder-free
prowess to party.

Rage.
Get what you want.
All night.
Making sure that
if we sleep,
our shoes
are off.

The first time for one of us
the three of us
lay trapped in the meeting of lady's lips.
Not getting off
but getting close
to a pair of sculpted and slim homosapians
who put on
and take off
with the fall
of just the right words.

And just the right silence.

As the moonlight fades, I rise to roam now
sticky floors that bore the footsteps
of Tasmanian Devils and "Diablo",
only to find that testosterone
has forced fists
into walls.