ive always followed the
of your lips your
hips and the musky lilt of
that boils in your hair

and in the front room
cooes the effervescent afterglow
of the t-waaaaahm-bone
its lisp
that echoes yours
as you mutter into the ashtray

we’re supine in that satin
you said you hated but bought anyway
the leaves you said youd quit
but keep on rolling up up
your kids pictures on the nightstand
(just one nightstand)

the smokes coil reminds me of
a smoky intestinal tract and
as it paints bile on the ceiling
i think
of the capillaries that thread inside us
that take the shallow nutrients
from the funyuns you ate
to counteract the fourth pint,
their travel around the curve of
the duodenum,
to end their lives,
a tribute to Xibalba,
in your plumbing system.

and i say “i cant stomach this anymore”
and get out.

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