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Shots of Quick
Hello climes of Sarasota,
your sun has beckoned unto me.
Stuck among the scraping skies,
these monitors keep flickering.
It's been twelve hours, maybe more,
since I'd rested head upon the table.
My friend with cleavage berated me
towards an end. Of course I'm able
to comprehend her words and course
of action through she'd escalate.
Despite all that it's hard to tell
how much of this I hesitate
to really, truly, fully know;
to take on in to my digestion.
I question what may be demand,
and what of it is pure suggestion.
I hate these throes of miser's woe;
these shackles of the past in tow
that keep me drunk on gravity -
pressues of the live let be.
And yet my thrashing is impotent -
while shedding weight may bring me joy,
the problems solved have nothing gathered
to draw the man out from the boy.
I'll cling to me, my cat, my home
and borrow change from friend and neighbor
to sling a touch of green and garden,
and liquid nitro to which I cater
to blind myself to all my failings,
my many, sorted, sordid brunts;
eventually I'll have exhausted
all my needs, and all my wants.
