Tuesday, January 1, 2013

Here's another poem I wrote (it's too bad it's 15 lines: 15-liners blow donkey balls, tho I can't actually prove giving head to an Ass is bad) a minute ago--like literally; Sonoma Cutrer is my muse I guess, tho I feel that statement is really blah--I wld hate for someone to think I celebrate alchohol as muse:

Fucking-Up In A Tub

Death chuckles.  The living
Sob.  Death bobs like a cork in
The bathtub of a drunk. 

The tub is indifferent.  The finger
Flesh turns
Crenellate.  Once the drunk

Tried to touch a fortification
And fell.  His head
Made a thud; it almost

Cracked: the addiction
Almost jetted like urine
Yellower than sun

And exactly
The sickly luster signals

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