Make me *** and I'll come for you, until they pull me down and make me cough out loud. I'm a street named Chance and I'm awful loud, I read right to left. I hear colors not sounds. I'm a maniac, maniac, for Empire Carpet. I've been hospitalized for being honest, and condescended to for living life on the edge, with a knife in my bed, a pillow under my head. Where I've pollinated my sheets with the easements of sleep, and circumvented my best friends just to shake up the news. I've been used, I've been lied to, I've been amused, I've survived abuse, I've been bruised, I've leaned toward the obtuse, I've leant forward for truth, and I've written down my upsides and foretold my mishaps, I'm a backwards commando for import and export of hazmat, and especially bath mats, CB2 or IKEA, Bed, Bath, and Beyond, or just farther beyond. I remain calm, while the adverbs stack in my palms, it's the trick of word pimping to work verbs into adjectives, articles attached to their nouns, an ellipsis or eroteme, a period or comma. I said I am *******, so now won't you come. I've evolved what I've said into parts of a song. So push back on me and I'll push back in you, I'll take your words and re-dedicate them into consonants and vowels. Hang up your heraldry, and never put down your ***. Keep your habits to bedrooms, and your words to never forget.

Empty Bottles align in the light, Reflect the shattered soul, Broken down to the last drop ****** the cork like the wolf harvests bone, The devil within busts through the held open door, Societies vessel of acceptance, ignorance in a swig and a sip ****** up the wall, I Doubt it’s worth the loss of yourself after all.

Dignity as fragile as the brown paper bag, Held around the chalice of your disgusted pride, Bottle after Bottle are you even allowed to call yourself alive, Hooked to the bottom of the glass, Any excuse even if the next ones your so-called last.

Friends and fortune faded, The bottles figure jaded in the light of your dim-witted realise, Nothing else to do but sit back and enjoy the ride

The Reaper sits across the bar, Sickle in hand pouring bottle after bottle never drifting very far, No strings to pull as the tender waits, Bottle like a shotgun, the mixer shakes, the distilled Deity waiting to deliver the last call.

Before the turn, No Misery or Shame, In the end, Is it really the bottle or the man who’s to blame.

Hips, curves and all,
Spilling and slipping with
Tip-top, filled up
Love,
Baby

Escapades avoid but the stars persist
When I saunter below the pale elm;
“That” pale elm with –
Whiskey in one hand, “wanting” reached the other.

We could drive this device every night,
And every night we nearly did,
Come every shot, every smirk, each and every –
Shooting star; wishes for naught, dreamt even deeper.

So the perfume would task, talk and mask
The other who could never be you
And therein lays the tale to the tree –
Our elm, “That pale elm where we’d learned,

We’d loved and at ends, opted to part ways.