2012 Days

2012 Days

Mark Coleman

Lloyd Price is informing me that he’s standing on the corner a la beat juke. I’m giving the bar a workout with all the shot glasses that I keep slamming down. The walls are yellow from when Mama let you smoke at your leisure. I’d bang that tattoo artist if she wasn’t with her boyfriend. Such a nice, tight ass. I’ll just end up sleeping in a ditch, and pissing on a church’s doormat. Sorry Jesus, but they shouldn’t have crucified you on a big “t.” To a sex addict, it’s only a few letters away from “twat.”

Happy Easter though, man. Burned through too much green. Can you pull your old water to wine trick? Let you have a glass or two. See what you really think about all these fucking Christians. I appreciate what you did down here. But if you send me to Hell, I might change my mind. Your pops knows what a son of a bitch, I can be.

Asking if I want a tattoo. Shit. Who wants a permanent reminder of your hack art? Stabbing at over conceptualized pop, and quickly scrolling Chinese characters. If you come at me with a needle, it better have more than a drop of ink in it.

Friends dropping off the planet. So many heartbroken Lenny Bruce’s. Self medicating till all that’s left is the whites of their eyes. So much puke on the bathroom walls that you’d have to go at it with a buzz saw. Can I get you a drink? Occupado. They’re unclogging needles in there.

Coke binges at the end of the world. Opium and meteors. Hashish and people screaming with hatchets in their heads. Laughing at junkies that I’d give my left arm to remain friends with. But what else would you expect of a Teabagger who can’t spell his own name, and constantly confuses his own Carver suffering with Big-Money-Corporate-Rand-Boners. Trump erection haloes that will talk your hair off.

Wakes and bakes a 4/20 one. Passes out with one of Abbie’s Steals as a nightmare block. Piss tests and books. Former screaming “out-dated.” Latter just screaming for recognition. Libraries built out of bones that are losing their marrow.

They’re eating their own dogs somewhere. Leeches on the eyelids beat what drops by, when they droop. Dancing with a hippy chick with such prominent labia that I come without thrusting. Out in the street with stained jeans. Deciding that this is where I want to lie down. So many wheels speeding towards my head. Friend breaking my date with destiny.

A fridge full of half drank beers, and a rotting apple pipe jammed with burnt, mildewing skunk. Trying to find my way back to a smile. But her lips only pucker or frown at the sight of me, anymore. Hearts that are china cabinets breaking way too often. Rain and beds that bust the teeth in your head. Cement, enamel, and a ruined apology. Thunder halving. Wondering if the world would be a different place if I started bee lining. But the stumble is so godly.