For seven-eighths of each day

I long for those instantaneous moments of

Unbridled joy.

I bid so long to Marianne

As I hear the full bubble of wine

And welcome Suzanne

And the fullness of her moistened lips.



Oh, if the eyes are portals to the soul,

Then the throat must positively be the vessel

To all that soothes the thunder

and causes our souls to shudder

In the watery pits of our gut.



These toxic tonics that we hold

Betwixt our baneful id,

And our most pathetic of egos.



This lamb that tames the lion,

Purple hearted with paranoia

and a lack of trust to rival even the most barbarous

Of governments.



**** me or don’t.

Perhaps the only mark of solace in this life

Is to be stabbed in the front

And to avoid the hustling of the scheming lovers

Behind the roman blinds of your devotion.



Set fire to Marianne.

You can lay with Suzanne

But don’t share a smoke with her.

Because she will take.

And take.

Take.

T.