more bad poetry!!!

We get paid the same
whether marching or fighting
and sometimes we just want to lay down our guns.
But goddamn it all if I haven't been laying pipe by day
and trying real hard to do the same by night

and for what?
you all know as well as I do
(enjoy that, it doesn't happen often
or at least I won't admit it)
that I'm just trying to find the right hole to crawl into
to hide myself forever
in the warm, gushy center of a girl I can stand
and who can stand me
or at least pretend to
in the hopes of finally being able
to hang up the holsters for good
and end the shitfaced Casanova charade.

I winced when she said she liked giving better than receiving
and I told her that she spelled her name wrong
when she entered her number in my phone;
we were obviously doomed from the start.
I made sure she knew this by spilling my cocktail
on my lap when it came time for my friends to leave
and she suggested I go with them and call her the next day.
I arrived home at five in the morning
my jeans reeking of rum
my shirt of marijuana
and I've never smoked that stuff in my life.
I deleted her number
and her existence
from my memory
since my headboard has already been whittled down to
next to nothing
and the sober me would rather wake
next to no one
than one more
to curse the day my old man didn't pull out in time.

No, it's not a fish that you can catch
and it sure as hell ain't a lilac bush blooming
or the top wrung of some morally depraved ladder:
it's a limp prick against a warm ass
as their respective owners fall out gracefully and quietly
into that good
knowing they'll be able to do the same every night
until the last
unless they somehow fuck it up irreparably.

Yup, that's it in a nutshell, folks.
But someone declared every-man-for-himself
and we've all paid the price ever since.

On your mark...
get set...

currently reading:
"ask the dust" by john fante
"slouching toward nirvana" by charles bukowski