Drunkscape

MUSIC

I feel like a party. 

                             Ten tent poles surround us. 

                                                                      Lipstick on the carpet. 

Corpsepaint in our lungs. 

                                    Give me my grain medicine. 

                                                                     Burn chalk in my ears.

It would be such a relief if the future was as bright as snow.  

Okay. 

It's not treacherous if you're not nervous. 

Bloat be cursed. 

Stopping progress. 

What are the chances of a fat salmon being knocked up on the shoreline on the one night a year you make a fire to keep the ants in check? 

It's unbelievable. 

Soaking wet. 

Your'e unbelievable. 

The wah-wah isn't in time with our beat. 

The band is too old to take serious. 

It's the Far Reaching. 

So please don't break my arms. 

With your blurry fingers. 

I can't talk right and don't much. 

It comes out like feathers. 

And I know things, clumped, about film, cooking, parkour.  

Yoga, Chechnya, rhetorical devices. 

It's best to practice in disabled bathrooms.

Akin to a bulimia purge, maybe. 

Speaker's Digest. 

Chunks identical to the merely chewed. 

Always the beach, in my body. 

The stinging salt on my tongue. 

The worst breast I ever chomped smelled like bratwurst. 

She tricked her tit westward. 

Finally, until the rain was gone like Shannon Hoon. 

Does tit make sense? 

Come on baby, let's catch a fish. 

Let's drive a wedge between us. 

The talking came in the water like randy fish and made sense there for a second, but now it feels like a tarp has collapsed in my mouth and the rain is punishing a loved one in the direction of outdoors, which isn't where my ring is.