Whisky Sour

Spin me a yarn, dear,
because it’s hardly
clear what
I’m wrapped around.

The drugs make me scrounge like pennies were priceless art; pointless sex left black marks on the lineage.

Push-pins in my chest,
blacklight stains
the family crest.

Sorry, fam, life on
insanity’s lam is but
a day’s work for degenerates.

And it’s not like
you consented but neither was
I blessed with a choice,
just
snap
decisions
joining forces.

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men said fuck it, he’s in pieces, he deserved it, I guess.

I’ve said it both in desperation, occasionally in jest;
that we could have
had the world if we could
stay fully dressed long enough.

But we throw it
away for
salt of
the earth and
questionable girth,
racing headlong into
the pornography of
our emotional geometry,
acts of
procreation in a
dilapitated church.

I suppose it somewhat hurts I wasn’t worth salvation, so salutations from a verse of undesirables,

just one perk of
being
whisky
sour.

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