When I Drank

when I drank,
I drank.

I sat around in my chromasia underwear
and made love to fluffdolls and flank sharks and after that
I washed the mirror clean with my meat trap smile

I let out a humdinger of a twisted flabbershaft,
only to have it bounce back into my bowl of cheerios,
which I always ate naked, save my crown of flowers.

I wrote with whiskey dick and sandwich breath –
I couldn’t keep the pen zipped or the headcheese down
or the silver clouds at bay.

I rolled a blazing shithook doubleslam
and choked it back with purple lungs which were
propelled by a sladium diaphragm with extra punch.

I watched the thunder and refulgent photons
from my palace on the lip of the green river,
and I saw the lights reflect in the windows of the lonely.

I tumbled into the jaggershot upswing of a heavy bottle
full of simple ruin, and it shot me like a load through a pipe
to a magic place with no redemption and bad music.

I wrote poems of ghoulish hell and inferno breasts,
sideshow hauterdanks, flippant gob jobs,
rush rush deadlies, hopscotch enigmas,
and three-dollar engagement rings.

I had pussrust dealings and brylcreem contracts with the dopers
and the 118th avenue lovelies who looked like pilot lights
under the bruised skin of a saturday double shake.

I licked the secret hurt from a few dreamy showcases
and they were sweet and bold with gin and hair dye,
and I loved them like the stars.

I rode the snow to the bottom of the hill
where I slipped on some ice
and cried under the chill of a halide moon.

I ran with the cruds and the fecklegeists until I couldn’t step,
and when my legs turned to golden fruit,
I ate them whole and didn’t choke on the pit.

I lost my money and bus-hat and couldn’t
get my ass out of my head
without some serious surgery.

I crushed under the weight of a woman’s lips
and shot myself full of gas, lichtenstien,
and flying bacon burgers.

I walked the streets so lovely,
the nights alive and shivering,
my breath so white in her mouth.

I took the wheel and ran her until she loved it,
until the wingship passed by once again
and the rusted angels flapped.

I drank. but these days I don’t do much of anything
but throw around some ink
and swallow anthems.