Hangovers and Underbellies



They breed us in factories and office spaces. They tell us what to enjoy- what a life is meant to resemble. All those walking disasters in love with the opulence of their existence. Drown them before it’s too late. Put them out of their misery before I choke on the fumes of their indignity. Fine wine and women, they tickle this belly of mine like flames lick the devil. The scent of my body disgusts me. The hunger that sees me devour at will leaves me appalled at my feral actions. Take down those tights while I feel the burn of a glass of whisky. Slid up that skirt while I drink myself under the table. Those big brown eyes as I spread these desires all across your belly. Stay in bed and fuck. Never go out. Never get hurt. Bodies waiting to fill cramped cemeteries. Pregnant for a while then washed up like a seaside resort begging to breathe once more. A poem of creation. A story of madness. Beware ordinary and banish all signs of normality. Sex and ancient stones. Dollar bills and low paying jobs. All kinds of everything as we use up the days to carry us to some higher plateau. Walking the streets of Venice stealing cigarettes. Stalking dimly lit bars screwing whoever shows an interest. A body always serves a purpose, one way or the other. Hips festering insects. Fingers stained with cirrhosis. Eyes wide with daddy issues as all those ex-lovers pluck feathers for fun. How many nights have I spent consumed by alcohol and memory? Far too many, but this puzzle must be unravelled if I’m able to understand the secrets of my mind. These words can’t be helped. They’re more a part of me than anything else. They’re more me than me. Do it because you feel it in your bones, not because it makes sense. Swim with the echoes of everything you ever felt was right. Denounce garbage. Piss on derision. All flowered up and massive like a supernova in the gaze of all those murderous gods of lore.

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