A Variety Of Things: Diary Entree

    slow.  
 
There was a word there in  
front, but NOW,  
there clearly is not.  
 
 
Don't mistake this soft,  
and opaque cervix of a  
town to be your walking  
place.  
 
Pressing your too crippled cane  
into the moss dome.  
 
Arches  
that selectively inhabit the  
maps of the meek and lonely.  
Guiding outward.  
 
 
A squeal shook your ear drums,  
starved for air and bloated with  
sewers and phlegm.  
 
"I'M BETTER, I'M BETTER AT THIS  
THAN YOU."  
 
"Fuck" Rings out of you like a  
hiccup.  
 
And there, like a dream, your  
large, white, cock-sized pills  
collapse beneath your molars  
and sleepily grind your throat  
with "Mr Sandman, I'm so alone,  
bring me somebody to call my  
own."