The television flickers silently,

illuminates a bare chest

against the consuming darkness.

It’s one thirty,

last call

but I’m already finished.

 

I’ve seen too much man,

too much woman,

too much hello,

how are you

take me home,

fuck me good,

good morning,

and good-bye.

What was her name?

 

I’m done

it’s last call and I inhale.

Some motherfucker

just shot another motherfucker

on TV. The hero,

Arnold Jean Claud Stalloneaneger

and his big gun.

 

No more clubs,

looking for Mrs. Right Now,

populated by zombies,

searching for Tig ol’ Bitties,

in a Thong.

 

I inhale,

my ears still ring

from the base booming trance,

driving movement.

Gyrations, dirty dancing

sexing in the darkness.

Panties to the side

it isn’t difficult to grind

and slip something in.

 

I inhale, hold it.

I’m done.

I’m not going back

to the land of the dead.

 

Big guns,

explosive television.

Naked on the couch

with a lighter and a roach.

Forty-nine are taken out.

With blood on the dance floor

smoke weed, and scream

till my fucken eyes bleed.

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