mutt

upright

oh, friday. it was one of those
rare American Spirit in
cratered husk, a
three thirty am flicker combust of
some
steadfast thought, fucking

grow up! groped my depressed
delve- this a few hours
after having my
cock in a strange woman’s mouth, her
bent black
bodysuit. envisioned the

change,
really I did. felt that warm wave
wash over me and two days later
it keeps, like
canned food, or jam, or a coward’s
perceived courage.

.

so, on the eve of my vapid
vasectomy, I clean my hitter with
a bent prong fork and twist in
the last of eighth. I put down
the last of the whisky in green
sleeve, and manhandle the cork,
the last pop of
mutt wine. as

freshly peeled sweet
potatoes bake in oven to stoned
forgetful
crisp, I write this. and sure,
I may have gambled
and drank this sunday away, but
like upright to ape, tomorrow
I’ll change.

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