Drunk Part Two

Sticky, redundant hooks
squeeze you like crustaceous claws
in their salivating maws
as you scramble across the web
still unwinding from your chest.

When it’s like this,
it’s the fucking best–

the strong-legged side of
hammered, you tell yourself,
swiping away a sudden lamppost
in a spray of zotting sparks
against the spiraling dark
beyond the outlying infrared
of the Mission Bar sign.

Gettin’ all
“Born to be wilin’ shit”
is how it git.

Like that level of drunk where
you catch yourself uttering “fughedabou…”
and instantly forgetting.

That long

pause

drunk,

when it’s like you’re talking to someone but not really,
only more so,
and at some point there’s a blanket,
or a lamppost.

“Slurrying”
God, actually slurring my thoughts;
fughedaboudit
that was it!–

drifting into pictures…

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