if you are reading this you should probably be a little shit-faced first

i find myself craving the calm
laced in nicotine, lit kindly
with a fucking german fire.
i will find solace in the bottom
of that fifth bottle of hellish
heaven, seven matches unstruck,
ashes on the floor of this grey room
my gasoline stench lingering.
it didn’t taste as bad as you said it did,
but maybe the menthol smoke
cleared up the lymph nodes and
the taste buds, or maybe i’ve always
had a knack for (almost) self-immolation
like the fucking Dalai Lama, delay
llama, the holy head of inebriated
clarity, my body a propane tank
hand clasped around the neck
of a ghost that wrestles and
nestles its spot in my soul pen.
soul paper, tattooed ink-poetry,
your poetry magic, drink drank
drunk en our hearts out on this
pale ale night; skies on that tequila
sunrise, orange blue, orange red,
feeling a lil bit experi- mental
senses as high as my lowest low: all the
nothing screaming against the
surrounding
everything
pockets of reality and
eventuality, but

fuck that-
pour me another;
light me another;
i ain’t going nowhere

anyway

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