Slam into my arm.

a poet’s just one dumb asshole having the courage  to meddle with words

far bigger than  any emotion he’ll ever feel.

no true poet wants to draw butterflies  through verse; 

cups of earl gray, cans on cans on cans of lukewarm beer;

to the squeals of my guitar, I sustain

many beatings  I took willingly,  like a  loyal dog

just to be here,

and see  this;

all of this. 

I died many times, knowing that I’ll end up  here, 

took never but one punch, to smile with my knocked-out teeth about

all of this,

drink the cold away with lovingly boiling whiskey, light up a couple smokes, sit back 

and feel your eternal love for  Black Sabbath;

smile, stretch, thank the Gods-

my father sat in his room to the music he later chose to raise me with;

now, I sit in my room with the music he chose  to raise me to. 

even when  he isn’t looking, 

he still sees the man he used to be

and I see  the man I will be-

as my eyes roll to the back of my head, I gain clarity and tell myself-

when times  turn to lines, and we deform through indigenous degeneration-

we, as the ones that had time stand perfectly still at midnight,  between the past and the  upcoming,

gave in to the  sloth, the gluttony, the  pride, the  wrath, the  lust, the  greed, the  envy,  and chose to thrive  eternally,

on the absurd. 

on the absurd,  with the  cheeks and foreheads, on the absurd with the black dresses, shirts and smiles, on the absurd, with all its wobbling, wishes and hungover mourning  in the morning.

we gave ourselves up to be groped by the force of time,  and time ended up making love to us,  fucking majestically. 

the table fills with empty cups,  and we  dance until the cups topple,  lay a new, crackling plastic carpet 

a king  spends a month’s worth of rent in four days to get high and drunk, and then even more drunk and a tiny bit more high to fit in yet another drink until he’s just fine.

imagine- you became poor, but were a king;

the only nudity I care for is your  nude soul-

the quirks, the pains, the habits,

the ways you’d kill yourself if you really had the  chance to. 

the only nudity I care for is drinking alone at four in the morning,

wishing for something  to take it all and make it  better;

blowing smoke out of my window and talking to the cats  that roam around my backyard  all night;

I want to quit smoking and I hate  fucking cats, but 

this moment

is a tiny piece of heaven- stationary, 

she always eats her pastry first,  and then her yogurt- the one with the mushy apricots  inside. 

I take away her empty plate, and leave her  to her cappuccino; at the same table, at the same time of day, every day. 

people come and go,  then come and go some more, 

but among the ashtrays  and all the spilled drinks there’s beauty in her  consistency.

at the same table, at the same time of day, like that  one fucking tree you can always see in your head, but don’t know the age nor origin;

just a  tree  that you will always goddamn  remember. 

at the same table, at the same time of day;

drink until your stomach bleeds and asshole bleeds and only then can you truly say that alcohol  is your  best friend.

drink until your insides bleed and life just kinda wanes between periods of blood, vomit and bloody vomit;

only then can you truly call alcohol your best friend, your savior. 

a friend and a  pack of pills make my day; 

my heart stings,  stinks, begs but I won’t listen

because  I’ve got a couple hours left to my  self.

there’s no way around it- it’s meant to  happen. 

destiny. 

he will drink to Black Sabbath,  smoke, then take  his life;

not yet though. 

I’ve made friends with the half-dead spider in my bathroom;

we watch each other’s attempts at crawling every morning-

him, in any general direction, and me,  to ease my stomach into the toilet bowl. 

he cheers for me as I retch  and retch and throw up a little stomach bile, 

spit, wipe my mouth, thank my audience;

the sun rolls around my fingers,  and I juggle

the moon, the universe,

the men and the  women;

it all falls into my palms.