Monday, December 26, 2016


Pour in the coffee, sugar, half and half.
Shit out the hypocrisy, the innuendos and the passive aggression howling inside of you like sharp cheddar or a cyanide capsule.
I believed there was something wrong with me so I considered going to the doctor then I realized it’s all in my head and only the guillotine would do the trick.

I wanted to eat cake. I wanted to eat you. I couldn’t get it out of my head when you sat on my face and I nearly suffocated from a lack of oxygen and good taste.
Let’s call it quits or let’s call it a day or let’s just forget we ever started whatever this is because my arms are getting tired encircling you like the hot, nasty sun.
I remember when we began and you were so young and I was not so cynical or unwilling to give the benefit of the doubt to anyone who came into my orbit and pressed rewind.

Pour in the holiday cheer, the residual gilt and all of the false John Boy memories that keep you fresh and still giving somewhat of a shit.
I was broken and then I was fixed and then I lost my North Star and no GPS in the world was going to be able to tell me where to go or how to proceed along this razor’s edge.
I remember Staches and the dirty, zombie junkie who like a Dicken’s ghost reminded us just how fortunate we are to not be addicted to anything, but the denial of self and the resplendency of another milk-blood sunrise.

Charles Cicirella

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