I’m losing my shit.
It’s running down my legs.
Say it now or forever hold your peace.
And the poetry came to me like a thief in the night.
And it saved me from myself and for that I’ll be forever grateful.
And the moon hangs in the empty sky spinning its pulp fiction lies as I await another surge of inspiration to kill me dead.
I’m not talking about a physical death.
I haven’t been physical with anyone for so long I’m not even sure I’d know what to do.
As I wrestle this existential crisis to its unforgiving, unrepentant conclusion I swear I’m through blaming myself for not taking responsibility when a gun was placed against my temple and I was given the choice to either give up names or die a sniveling deserter.
We drive through the rain like a country song that’s drunk itself into an early grave.
We drive until the wheels fall off and burn and that doesn’t even do the trick convincing us we’ve pushed ourselves quite far enough.
I became lost in the folds of your poisonous chapbooks long before discovering myself captivated by your smelly sex and obscene gestures of self-gratification and self-hatred and even that didn’t help me to see you for who you really are.
I want to say it now, but what if the poetry reveals nothing more than a cathedral full of sheepish believers praying on their rusty knees to God only knows what.
I remember the first time I licked your finite pussy and how I did it without a roadmap or some other GPS device leading me to the X that surely marks the spot.
I’m losing my shit, but I guess that’s to be expected when I was never very good at making up for lost time or going to bed early enough so that I’m ready for a new day and a new way to finally absolve myself of all these readymade sins.