The little girl in the pool next door
is shouting, “Leave my brother alone.”
Everyone knows it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,
but we’re choking on all this light.
Love is a subject
glorified by apparitions
by lengthly ghosts passer-bye’s
good-bye hosts. Love was not
Cohen’s victory march, rather
On the slow rise
your words are as
knives or butterflies.
Still sleeping in a
daydream, a walk-about
Trail of replicas to my
I’m quite the pick up artist,
It’s a skill of mine,
I go out to some popular bar,
And get trashed on everything but wine.
I sauce until I’m a fall down mess,
Bemoaning how my life is shit,
Wailing my sorrows into my glass,
Until the bartender is sick of it.
I’ll slur out a morbid soliloquy,
And recite drunken poetry so shitty,
Until a lady has enough,
And talks to me out of pity.
Smooth operating there.