mount me like a satyr

the poetry mounts me like a satyr

the old man in philly is reticent

the high school kindred is verbose

the parisian sugar daddy is asleep

i’m faithful to no one but to all just the same

not lies, but untruths

i hate the lie but i necessitate it

now  don’t know which one it is, the lover, the lie

listening to a tune important in the old days

the good(bad)days

the poetry outdoes itself

metaphor, argot, slang, nudges and winks

it’s happy hour somewhere

maybe on the illustrious california coast

but all the history of that western wing

clumps in my throat and induces a gag reflex

the smell of tequila, south central, and a moment

with wielded power

the pattern: destruction and pleading, and

the knight in shimmering armor

that man so many years or days ago

i see the lines i put in his brow

with my junkie chic freudian bullshit

the word for ad in french is pub

i need a pub with darts

to be grandiloquent among the patrons

of all the gin joints in all the towns

of all the world

win harms

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