Across the bed, she has lain,
Not breathing not in vain.
My mood is as stoic as her skin's hue.
It started early with how the day
Cut ***** windows with sunlit rays,
Was as southern as a slice of honeydew.
She was leaning by the gate,
Like Christina Applegate,
As willing as a pauper without a clue.
I never asked her name,
To me, they were all the same.
(Somehow, I think this one might stick with me.)
There is an absence in her eyes
I have loved since her demise.
She will stay this way in my memory.
I pour the powder on her pale,
****** belly, then toot, inhale.
Through my nose, I feed my mind.
Sticky dryness of my mouth;
It's time to leave the south,
Go somewhere no one can find.
I can still hear the sound
Of the drive by shooting down
On the street from around the block.
The room is a vestibule
To the starlit harlot's tomb.
When I'm done, I leave her on the cot.
As I move through the door,
And leave behind the *****.
I muse, briefly, how I stay in the clear.
To all the good Catholic boys,
May you bang up lots of toys.
Have a ****** belly Christmas this year.
I was hanging out with friends a few seasons ago and one dude remarked that a girl, our friend, baring her mid-drift, had a ****** belly. We, being of a twisted sort, parleyed that into joking about doing coke off of a dead ******'s belly in New Orleans on Christmas morning. Please, take this as satire. Don't give me no heavy lip. I am out of meds, anyway.