some bad alcohol
yr nipples halfway through a sturdy handle
of Jose Cuervo, drunk dialing Martin Landau
and bidding on really cool shit it doesn’t need on Ebay
my mouth alone on a Friday night
walking to the bar high on used Clash of the Titans
lunch box fumes and quoting lines from Casino Royal
stares out a dirty window between corporately
sponsored neon as the Earth hurtles like a hastily guided
soccer ball towards the thick crotch of the moon
tries to order another drink without wincing while on
the other side of town your nipples download brand new
Tom Petty songs 5 1/2 hours after leaving a drunken voice mail
on my mouth’s answering machine explaining that
the universe is a complicated sandbox, a broken piano
needs constant tuning, and also that we were through
Multiverse Johnson 