jungle juice

You could just tell me what you think.
Touching tips of gold to your
lashes, remnants, falling fast asleep
on the sofa in my living room to
remind me that happy
isn't quite the same for everyone.

My red-wine stained tongue preaches hate
just the same as my cigarette tinted finger tips
taught me how to love you back,
rolling your joints
up and down like
the red carpet,
pushed out for you
every time you take a
breath break.

So delicious when you can fuck
anyone you want
­­ – everyone you've ever wanted –
like they're asking you
to break their bones and
make them
break me
too.

Your sleep eyes
blinking quicker to see if your
bad dreams are going
to fall away;
to see if I'll wake up next to you
in a minute or two;
to see if you can tell me this
was just a
night
mare.

Body double.
She's your
Crown Victoria doing St. Vitus' dance
praying quiet to
the Chaplain for the cure to the throbs
tomorrow morning. Today
technically.

We’re onto moral qualms,
drugs, and remedies now
as they chant something
downstairs and we disappear
on the roof
into the basement of
another
red
so low
cup.