casanova,
cigarrettes secreted in flannel,
a burnished cross blessing his
chest, and the crusted corners
of an ashtray, three fourths full;
vicodin and vodka in the drawer
side-by-side with the bible,
and so sins strike the Father.
it's a sort of five-feet-under fever,
where you strike yourself as starcastic.

play.
fast-forward.
repeat. repeat.
and so he goes,
masochist machine.
blessed be
the internal dvd.

casanova,
once again,
proving
that the world is wrong
and that all is not holy.

A/N: dedicated to poetic abortion, lovely soul that she is, for providing some inspiration for this piece.