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| Happy Hour by Bill Dungsroman 02/13/2003, 3:50pm PST | ||||
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| My crusted eyes flutter Fuck You to the sun,
At day's beginning I can feel day's end undone. My gut turns intemperate from alcohol tantrums, Like Kunte Kinte's shivers when his Man comes. Thirst like dirt, tongue twitches swollen fits, Morrow's caricature dance from too many arm-twists. Swollen pussy gravity beckons slut-like to the floor, A vertigo John for the Russian pimp's whore. Sit as I shit, monkeys play on my back; I could eat little children just to hear their bones crack. Empty shelves of organs Vomitus the Thief has robb'd, Sucked up and spat out, the Human Blow Job. It's at this time: shattered by tiny liquid raiders, I'd rape the Man in the Moon, smear shit in his craters. As I recount the lessons self-abuse has taught, Drink water-piss, eat bread-yeast from dead twat. I see her in bed as a bowel-cramp passes, 20/20 hindsight from bifocal beer glasses. I let her lay as she lay as she was laid last night, My cock cold-shoulders, ignores out of spite. Stomach butterflies, flies in my head shiver under my face, Insect Mother, Cockroach Lover, under dark carapace. Recriminations and denouncements serve me well, but then I continue to live with a bitter urgency to do it all again. BDR |
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Happy Hour by 02/13/2003, 3:50pm PST  Bachhus' Lonely Hours by 02/14/2003, 2:41pm PST |
