There are no ****** Rottweilers tethered to steel poles
outside  basement taverns.

No emaciated men  picking **** mites
on  their  faces or  women staring
blankly into the fog of their day.

Not a bad smell, a dead bird on a lawn,
an old person wearing a sweater too tight
or a poor kid with a cleft palate; not in Euphoria.

Woman ****** fuzz does not puzzle me,
but stumps  men near and far.

They claim hair is best on Bonobos;
I view that a lesser stance.

"From Voice Of A ******* Dog"

You watch at a distance from the safety
of  your green and  white lawn chair
as I lick  my *******. You probably
do not think I know my colors;
an incorrect assumption.

Green is for the Irish, communists
prefer red,  blue is the sky on good
days  and you are, as most
men, yellow. I am not on
that spectrum.

Blood thudded in my ears. I scuffed,
Steps stubborn, to the telltale booth
Beyond whose curtained portal coughed
The robed repositor of truth.

The slat shot back. The universe
Bowed down his cratered dome to hear
Enumerated my each curse,
The sip snitched from my old man's beer,

My sloth pride envy lechery,
The dime held back from Peter's Pence
with which I'd bribed my girl to ***
That I might spy her instruments.

Hovering scale-pans when I'd done
Settled their balance slow as silt
While in the restless dark I burned
Bright as a brimstone in my guilt

Until as one feeds birds he doled
Seven our Fathers and a Hail
Which I to double-scrub my soul
Intoned twice at the altar rail

Where Sunday in seraphic light
I knelt, as full of grace as most,
And stuck my tongue out at the priest:
A fresh roost for the Holy Ghost.

Time to go get some bones ripped out of my jaw
Normally I would be terrified
I hate medical procedures
Anesthesia
Normally I would think to myself,
"What if I don't wake up"?
But today, today that fear doesn't plague me
I'm indifferent towards the thought
Towards life
If anything, at least I'll finally get some rest
I wonder if that will be enough to soothe my body or my soul
If anything, at least it will stop my mind from racing
I haven't slept in days
Haven't eaten either, truth be told
At least now I'll be able to go a week without talking, && no one will think anything of it
Talking, such a tedious task when your chest is sunken in
Sometimes I wonder how people do it
Just go about their days
Typing away at their keyboards
Meeting deadlines
Making small talk
Must be nice to just exist
Without feeling weighed down by the weight of the world