by RC Miller
I’m choking on Chris Martin’s dick near my thymus.
It’s tattered with Amnesty International symbols.
St. Peter is hauling out newts.
The turkey and cheese ones are really wet.
I sit here tensed a stair cause I’d rather be alone,
South Jersey or somewhere pluses staple the clash below.
Around 11PM people finally change their drapes.
Too much much too soon, all that loose fabric
The Mexican breakfast specials make my little mammal special.
And I always hear of a good
Industry or old age ahead.
But to be honest with you,
I don’t think I can wear pain to work.
There’s a numbness inscribed on every denouncement.