Sometimes I like to suck on the bowl and pretend it’s a hard cock.
The pot gets me high enough to rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat.
I know who you are, but I don’t play Chess or any longer care for Bergman films.
All the poets I know are pussies, except for Jason who brings the house down with his fire sale orisons praying to no one, but a porcelain God.
My inner child and your inner child went out for a pack of smokes and neither one of them returned to the scene of the crime.
Sometimes I like to joust with my imaginary friend and pretend he or she gives a shit.
Things are bottoming out and I’m not sure what to do next.
Panic only seems to exasperate an already stressed situation.
Her voice pierces my stoned ineptitude and I hit myself because I’m a rageaholic who is tired of giving directions and still ending up lost.
Sometimes I like to rub real hard on the lamp until a genie pops out.
Will Smith is no Robin Williams and I’m offended that they even went there.
Let’s change channels and watch instead the open expanse shoveling clean coal into our frozen dinosaur hearts.