fistful of f*cks

fistfuls of
the miserable me, too visceral for weed,
maybe crystal or
benzies will
appease.

white lines off a kitchen knife,
reflections of vice
on serrated edge, head over the
bedside,
blue bucket I baptized
Jesus,

catching fluids I can’t
sneeze the fuck out.

influenza of
doubt,
impotency in paradise,
gender re-assignment of
inner rhyme,
emasculated swine
pushing the avian
9 to 5.

my moral
decline starts where
spine meets invertebrate,
playing beats between the
ribs my heart used
to
cradle the softer songs,

but got busted up in gondolas
and blazed,
forms of arson that come
with age but
rarely wisdom.

Comic Sans villains writing in
hemp chalk are on
the
chopping block now,
as all
my heroes are considered
poxes,

Pandora’s boxes
talking shit
and you wonder why they look at
these days and block out this
shit they swore to
stop.

some things burrow
themselves too deep to change,
and we live out a Groundhog Day of vain ambition.

whole fistfuls of fucks that
slipped through my hands
caught between the cushions,
and I got the drips
trying to give
a shit about
losing track of sand,

now I’m one
bad trip away from running out of
reasons to eclipse beachfront stances
on drowning.

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