Yesteryear, the syphilitics praise
a redundancy like no other.
Doomed we are to walk this sullen road,
comet tails ablaze and biting.
I’ve drank of the stagnant water
poured from the horse’s mouth
and felt otherwise refreshed.
It was like this in the future
we saw once in the iPhone ad.
My teeth came unclenched.
Mucked the filter, fucked the landline.
Scrubbed down with anxiousness
and turpentine, we don hefty robes
and chain smoke in oblivion.
The taste is slightly sour, often sweet.
Nothing beats an evening in the shade.