10:41 Friday


Reading a volume of Ginsberg,
                                   10:41, Friday,
another drag of a night,
and my mind is rotting soup
                              as heavy as seas.
Now there’s a quickening pain
in my temple not alleviated
by the usual cures as I transcribe
this dull scene into a fountain
that fluctuates in and out of song.
                          While sweetly,
the ruined alpha male reclaims
his stature in the budding husk
of a phallus before being severed
                             from the plain,
and then is broken,
preceding a shower of rusty spikes
                      over the bemused
        and beguiled lesbians
wrapped in pink and bronze lingerie.
A Russian snarls and unleashes
a spray of alcohol from his
                 hideous teeth, amid a batallion
of iron tuxedos roaring in unison.
Twenty minutes after the fact,
                                   I go for a smoke.


-r. miller


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