“I’m   sick    of     you


always
trying tobe a poeton
a balcny in the moorning
at


4
with-nough
whhiskey in your gut to **** a mule the size of a man twice yours”

Metal tastes the way beer does when your can is filling in the cut it opened in your mouth.
The same way words do with meaning.

“You don’t like
it?twhat’s         the matter?”
“It’s the word
mainly, listen to the sound,
ppuuuuudiinngg.
It sounds like the sop
from an unkempt venereal disease.”
“You ,
your fuckinwords.”

PlllaaassstiUc,
sounds like rain on a bucket with holes below the line you need it to be whole for, to work for collecting water
when you slap the bottle from my hand.

“Plastixs
cheeprthn
glash you devil
bitsh”

Off again into another night on may be the same bench till may be rain or rumble or a lack of water find me in the morning.