#3a

Yohoho and a bottle of Scotch.  For the little firecrackers.  Powder burns a nasty sore and people telling me what the fuck are you thinking.  If you neglect it long enough you’ll bleed to death.  But basically I’ve been denied bonzai and the glory of suicide in the name of love.  As boyfriend calls to say mom I’ve got you an art showing.  While I’m over for dinner.  Another Scotch please so far the bleeding is only external.  And what next?  Mozart’s requiem.  In nomenus patrii.  Hers or mine.  Who stuck around long enough to say my advice to you is what was your name again.  Or hers who kidnapped her at a year and then didn’t bother to tell her of her sisters for ten years.  When he got out of jail.  So I’ll drink myself to sleep tonite in her bed.  While she’s two time zones away dreaming of another man.  Boy.  Child.  And my sexual frustration.  Sadaam Housein sleeps soundly tonite in the knowledge at least one american is dying.  Capitalist scum.  Why can’t I buy love?  With money or devotion.  I love you.  But you can’t say the same.  Because another man’s cock is in your mouth.  So I drink and find the unlovable.  And I’m not always talking about masturbation.  I’m not the only unlovable.  Just the most serious case.  And I have the wear marks on my dick to prove it.  While you sleep soundly in your, my friends think he’s hot so it must be love.  Another toast to your happiness.  Hope you’re happy.  Just keep it down.  Pour me another drink.  Change his condom.  And roll over with a smile on your face.  My heart is breaking and you just hope that his condom doesn’t.  Not that I’m bitter.  Just lonely.  With capital L lesbianism left out lecherous left handed library libertarian left wing fascist.  Bitch.  She refuses to love me.  Simply because.  I don’t blame her.  While I’m hoping the next firecracker will be a grenade s gravity takes over.  So I’m family.  Just not the marrying kind.  But the kind no one talks about and whose invitation to the reunion gets lost in the mail.  But what did I expect?  Penis on a splint and all.  Impotence and the will to die.  Oh well.  We all have to have our areas of excellence.  Another drink.  And oh well it was fun while it lasted.  There’s a fly in my Scotch.  Oh well unexpected protein supplement.  And I sleep alone tonite.  Not that I’m bitter or anything.  Just dying too slowly.  Or too quickly.  Depending on half full or half empty Freudian childishness.  Give me a gun and I’ll shoot you.  Give me a bottle and I’ll shoot myself.  Tokens of me litter her room.  But her heart.  What was your name again?  Christ.  Jesus Christ.  And a bottle of Scotch.  My leg is asleep.  Unfortunately that’s all.  But I can pour another drink.  Don’t you understand?  I don’t understand it’s me who’s lost.  Who is or who has is simple trivia.  Like being there when the ball goes through Buckner’s legs or Evans plays in Fenway for the first time as an Oriole.  Who gives a shit?  I still sleep alone and lonely.  The distant love me.  It’s easier that way.  The your parents love who you could be but hate who you are.  Want you to fulfill their abandoned dreams.  Not live your own life.  Tightening the duct tape on the bag over your head.  And my orgasm ends up on my chest.  Nice shot.  But I’m the only judge.  And dying.  Because I can’t write a love poem.  A love song.  A love anything.  A lack of love anything and I’m fine.  But write about love.  Write in Greek and I’d score better.  With both the judges and the women.  While wild horses kick in my head.  So how are you?  Besides fighting off another bout of depression with drinking myself to death I’m fine.  Like Cindy Crawford in drag.  Oh yeah.  She’s a woman to start with.  Hairy mole and all.  You got satin shoes.  But still don’t love me.  Not the way that matters.  The way that means I don’t die alone.  So fuck you.  What good besides putting the bullet in the chamber are you?  Not to piss you off or to kiss your ass just reality.  And another drink.  Making my dick towards limp so I can pretend I don’t mind alone and lonely.  Until I can break through cements in the morning.  Thinking of what I can never have..  Except with myself.  Oh well.  Guitar solo.  Maybe that will get some women for me.  Mick Jagger is 100 and still picks up more women than I do.  Tom can I borrow your gun?  For just an hour or so.  Mick or me.  I still won’t get laid or loved or left behind.  Make it a double.

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