Piss in the ditches and
beads dangling from crooked oaks,
bartenders eager to lick faces
and pour libations down underage throats,
fresh as the bones
in white plaster alabaster tombs.
Was it you that vomited
vermillion on my shoes,
silhouetted sex acts
still Etch-a-Sketched in your eyelids?
It’s 14 hours to St. Louis
by steamboat,
but if they hit you again,
you’ll fold.
(Hit me.)
People are squeezed together on
a streetcar named Regret,
and their greatest handicap
is a hangover
and a group hallucination:
Touchdown Jesus guards Esplanade.
Yes, He stays vigilant
but still hasn’t seen a bathroom.
He surely saw your tits.
Everyone on Bourbon
guzzles hurricanes
and pretends not
to catch the irony,
but they’ve already caught the clap.
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