Like the infertile young debonair of the American Dream, whiskey dicked, and moaning over the sweaty heap of calloused flesh, my "relationships" are brimful of disappointment. The throngs of love drunk junkies eager to play, dressed for the Concert of Apollo and the Muses. Naked grudges, threshing and gushing the way the chicken did; grandmother with head in hand. Rhythmic and off beat, instinctual. Begging; more, more, more. They're beginning to wear the same face, a carnal imprint of satisfaction. But I know they don't see me, how could they, lying, eyes rolling in the back of their heads? My eyes still. I can picture your face here but it'd never do, subdued issues of a fallacy state. Irate. How could you leave this impression? Emotional digression. I've promised myself time and time again not to fall for the same old ****, that kiss, that ****** blood-inked kiss. But the insulin fused memories scream. I detest the wretchedness I've exposed myself to. A period of forgetting you, but the passage of time pulling grain from grain, uplifts my disdain. I finally feel comfortable unveiled, awaken, lying next to the humming lips of a foreign swain.