By Emily Brown
They who float about the day seamlessly
lazing down a river where their comatose
minds cook the vegetables within their
Ralph Lauren cotton polo t-shirts and their
grinning eyes water as they take another hit
from the cheap shit they bought two months ago.
Hoot and holler, romp and round they fling their
dicks against each other in the twilight.
Grunting and heaving the table is set as
chalices are ceremoniously placed upon its top
in a pyramid at either end they
stand and chug the gauntlet through
their already corpulent masses, high-fives all around
my boys daddy’s home to buy away your troubles
as you pile up SUV after SUV for some acronym
of a reason. You have a mental disorder that
inhibits your abilities so pill after pill is prescribed
and you sell pill after pill to some ignorant
sufferer of false dreams and reality.
The night is old, but Dawn is young
and waits to be fucked in eight different ways.