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Too Much Wine
If there were inconsistencies in the masterpiece,
they were largely ignored;
she was allowed her manic episodes,
and the next time we’d lay exhausted in each other
and all was forgiven for craving, a casualty
and respite, and all that was clarifying
and cloying deliberations and previous, tony hauntings
and self-absorbed insurrections and lubricious caprices
we’d be comforted by how nothing changes with us
and as always I’ve had too much wine
three liters of Carlo Rossi’s burgundy for fourteen dollars
from an unemployment check
like Dock Ellis throwing a no-hitter on LSD
like a hooker who brings you egg rolls
who shaves her pubic hair in your bathtub in a maudlin manner
and then nothing matters but how I forget
and I’m running out of cigarettes
and I’m listening to post punk and loathing myself mysteriously
and I miss the girl that wrote about Snapple caps
and, maybe, I’ve had too much wine
and is Santorum worried about Pennsylvania or is he chasing a VP billing like a destined ejaculation
and did I watch Colbert last night?
She slept right next to me
it didn’t bother her as nothing usually does
she didn’t wake up
and if she did and if it was forgotten
I would just kiss her clit in admiration like a regal hand, then her lips
and then she would continue sleeping
and then I would have another glass of wine.
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Tags: Colorful, Mocking Myself, Sensitive Poet v.s. Former Professional Asshole
