adrift in the infinite
swamp. Daisy-chain of twinks, gilt
orgy, 8-ball, nine PM Tuesday.
I used to rub my wine–smeared hand
over my wine-smeared mouth 
(the pout that launched
a thousand UFOs). I now recall the warm
feeling I got when my brain
warped.  I hurled a peridot Rolling Rock
bottle at the wall, maroon in the dark.  I hear it shatter
only now that all is well. (The top shelf’s bowing.)
I massage myself at night before I sleep,
first my face, then my shoulders, then my feet,
then my left palm falls 
upon my right. My skull
streams clips of some forgotten life I left
somewhere in a world such as this,
but brighter, or better, or so,
so much worse.