The Meat Grinder

some nights are brutal:
soot, snakes, a sneaking suspicion
it's all a terrible farce,
a race to the nearest cemetery,
about as meaningful
as a church for a fish.

so you take a shower
but the soot sticks
like a barnacle
and the idiot poet
who wrote this
fucked up poem you're in
has had one drink too many,
either that or
somebody keeps tilting the room
while the snakes wear familiar faces
and get closer and closer
until they bite and
you die like Al Pacino in Scarface,
like a moron,
minus the cocaine and
the whole thing bleeds
into the alarm clock's scream:

sun's up,
fucker,
time to start
all
over
again.