It is the trumph of Huxley
over Orwell every cinco
with our hot mexican vomit
breathing into the confused breaze.
The lust that really means
you are fat and full of hormones
and drinking little wayne sized
portions of nightquil at 8pm.
Its still a cold rain.
Its a snort replacing your commas. This
blissful new season. Nature will
coo once again as it tries so hard to kill.
You will not excape:
Whether the dead puppy
flopping at the end of your fist
or this aqward sweaty skin on your shoulders
the jacket is coming.
You can’t excape the jacket
that glares like your mom
from the messy side of a couch
with it’s pockets full of yellowing tissues
and useless plastic that use to hold
the meds they make meth from.
The legs are growing ripe from
colorful sundresses I’ve been told
but I can’t tell with my eyes all
black and sandpapery. Goddamn
I wish I had an eyepatch
and the abillty to walk like I’m sober
or a throatful of vanilla ice cream
followed by a painless death.