There came a laugh from the high collared man as he stumbled around in the pitch.
Eyeing the glass of the centipede past, he indulged in the Belgium of kitsch.
Foam came out the corners of his mouth and receded like a quivering eel.
Tried to lap up the freedom, just to vomit the sorrow.
Speaking in tongues to the funeral fire ‘cause the fungus is now in his brain.
Mold on the roof of his mouth and the tooth that came loose ‘cause of general disdain.
Dirty epithets of a painful bent emanate from his pretty little mouth,
Spilling out on the walkway, congealing fat in the freezer.
He’s holding back the tears, so salty like the Dead Sea.
A baby crowning from his navel points his wicked eye towards me.
Children are cheerful when he comes along. He’s a surrogate for fantasies.
Parade around town like a liberal clown ‘cause he’s found a profound sense of peace.
I regret the days I never spent with my sons and daughter doing meth.
It’s too bad they’re in juvie, trading handjobs for safety.