I lean against the rail, to hold steady as Royal Gate reins.
I lean eyefucking a stranger, trying to remember the last time I felt a **** rub against my legs.

I lean on unanswered messages and unanswered calls as the sticky *** that holds this ******* social life together doesn't show it's protein background,

and I ******* own ***, trying to forget why it take me a half an hour to rub a half one out

thinking of their names.

thinking

those kids aren't worth it
while I hang up my *******
in the shower

to dry.

Call me Bukshittski

For I am no Vonnegut
For I am no Burroughs
For I am no Kerouac

and I am no good man
I am abusedive, corrosive

and hold all the talent in a rotten teaspoon of a dead, dear friend.