maybe i’ll do a lid, a line, finish
this fucking Belgian whore
right down the gullet.
maybe it keeps snowing
because the little man in the clouds
knows the precipitation trapped
in my heart
under the fat
and the booze
and the junk.
maybe she’ll throw me
down the keys, cut
me a long one, cut me a drift
away from the love that died
while i was playing gardener
and hard saint. fuck.
i hope i never
let me down again. too expensive to die.
this run has had the highest cost yet
and i’m no where near the end.
no rehab revival, no thoughts on God
just cunt and drink and cut and bleed and cunt
and kill and fall and forget.
theres still someone else
i need to be inside of, and
someone else
i’ve got to be
but he
can’t lay stone, or
guzzle gasoline, or lie
or kill or drive
my blood-red pick-up straight
up the lamp pole
thru the purple curtains
and right on into
to the next
sister of mercy.
i take water where i can get it.