Another poem about sticking my finger up my ass.
Another poet creating skid marks not poetry.
A burst of inspiration hit me all at once like a meteorite.
Archie Bunker and Rimbaud all rolled into one skuzzy irascible ball of simpleton and visionary.
I don’t believe I was taught as a child how to wipe my own ass.
At the very least I don’t recall this lesson taking place when I was conscious.
At the very best I was sick the day they explained why cleanliness is next to Godliness.
Being alone so much of the time is becoming harder and harder to pull off, but it’s still better than ripping the Band-Aid off a fresh scab and pretending it doesn’t hurt like the dickens when Satan forces himself inside of you with no warning or lubrication.
And to be perfectly honest I never much cared for Quentin Tarantino.
I think this poem is over.
I think this poem is done.
It’s time to watch the final episode of the vastly underrated Person of Interest and pack one more bowl.
It’s about time I bowled a 300 game and got over my fear of bowling shoes. It’s about time I kissed you smack-dab on the lips and stopped caring what people think.