Maybe I’m Wrong

A daily mantra that I frequently weave

Between my teeth and the moist bristles

Because who knows

Who cares


Squeezing an orange

As if it were an infant’s skull

Into my spotted glass

River run it down my throat

With wood chip cereal


My lover says I am dying

I say, I sure hope so

Come to my grave

Leave a bouquet of flowers

Wrapped in cigarillo skins


Published at RAW