fifteen percent alcohol by volume

drunk in my mouth, the faucet is too far
from my hands, is sliding away, slip sliding,
grip sliding, waterbeds on spring lawn
mattresses. oh, the fan is on high or low
or medium, spraying me with air. my ring
is on, too, my finger wears it. my head
says no to the pillow, but the pillow
wants sex now, so there's rapage,
sex with the pillow and the head, until
i get away and beg sarah slean to stay
away from my brain. lucky me, she says,
and taunts me with her lyrics, but i'm not
lucky at all to have her song stuck in my
head. yow, my thigh is tense. from work.
or booze. does alcohol make legs part of
beds, with packer sheets, brett favre in his
doableness? so hot. want to touch the hiney.
shit. i just about chopped off my foot. not
really. plastic fans are fans and not serial
suicide machines. i'll never understand
my own self sometimes. like tomorrow
this will all be bullshit and i won't like
any of it except for one or two lines.
started off good, then turned into manure
somewhere down the digestive tract. right
where things get fuzzy. but oh, fuzzy shit,
what a weird sensation that would be.
i'll restrain. the bra on my dresser looks
like madonna and i know that wasn't
a straight line down the page and my
handwriting is huge and sloppy right now.
fuck. favorite word, bitches. say what you
will, but it is versatile as fuck. see, i did it
again. oh, shit. my stomach hates me. i hope
i can go to work tomorrow and not think
of alcohol. dumb roommates. not really.
my own fault for drinking. it's after midnight
and this is longer than the berlin wall, if there
is such a thing. it'd probably be pretty long. so
long. good night. hope the vomit bugs don't bite.