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Maybe one last orgasm,

or one more drag.

Maybe one last spicy Frito,

covered in chocolate−

just like my steaming corpse.

Maybe just one more pill,

or until the bottle’s gone,

as I ward off death again with a flick of my tongue.

The sweet inhalation of a second joint,

The sweet limp eyes afterward, and

the kaleidoscopic chemicals working their way slowly into my brain as I become a dog and bark at the passing strangers.


Just one more temporary high;

Just one more prick of one more dirty needle,

so I can watch the blood trickle down:

A slick stream of scarlet on my arm,

coagulating around the other scarred memories.

And when the hours gone and the high subsides,

I’ll flick open my beaming god,

The room burning with colorful, feverish dreams.

And a few soothing strokes and a few addictions later,

I’ll be fine:

asleep waiting for death−

or the next day:

whichever comes first.


But first I’ll take a virtual whiff of some virtual girl showing me her virtual breasts,

the jiggling plasticity microwaving my pupils,

while I read what the TV guide has to say about love and other contingencies school never taught me.

And when I finally need to know how to be a man,

To please a flesh-woman with bulging, brown eyes and bulging, brown feet,

dirty from past experience,

i’ll flip open to the movie section,

with its fading, smeared words,

and watch a George Clooney movie.


~ by ardentbowel on March 15, 2013.

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