A little nervousness before the
thirteenth imaginary bang on my behalf?
That’s too bad, and after all the trouble
I went through in setting you up with her.

It’s just anxiety. That immovable object
lumping inside your throat like swollen glands
before spilling out like the crud inside a pimple.
It’s just anxiety over the past, and your authenticity.
Just consider this as the caveats to the upkeep
of an elephant graveyard of all the bitches
and the hos and good girls next door etcetera.
All the females who you pretended to bang.
They are not disposable.

You bang out a story and it’s, peace out Susan.
Then it’s Sarah. But the bones of Susan, yo.
They remain as real as her flesh was once-
Her bones end up skeletonized somewhere-
They become a part of the landscape.

All the neurons and synapses and shit
that you sacrificed in making her-
This was your irrevocable gift to Susan.
This is why you shudder when you recall-
and thusly gift her the same shit in death-
when you pass by her bones on the field-
on your morning routine of debauchery.

You already know what I’m talking about, right.
You’re all like, “save it luke I’m the real fleshman.”
I’m like you’re probably right.
You’re like, “I’m just gonna swallow it down and
bang this braude over susan’s dusty bones.”
I’m like I feel you. That’s how you got that
lump inside your mouth in the first place.

As for the bugs, well-probably just cocaine.