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Zipper
Cabin rockin don't come knockin.
Drunk young futurewinos like layers in a cold cake,
sweet freckles bundled clothes rocking with me
hours it seems, not a chance in the world to
take it home.
Drunk and never feeling it until after trundling
off the back of the truck, not fucked or touched,
just wet and smelling like the sweat of the
workers in the vinyards who imagine romance
corked in every bottle.
i believe i died in a gutter in a previous life
... may none follow my past path