I’d describe it as tickling the outskirts,
but as a child tickling always
incited an outburst.
So what am I supposed to do
when the curse of inept words
drops me from higher altitudes?
in lieu of appropriate time-signatures
and perfect rhymes.
I’m lactating lies
from the pores in my porous eyes.
Baroque, upholstered stairs
covered in tequila
Solace in crime,
comfort in pain;
I’m as misanthropic and estranged
as smoke rings without the apparatus;
intrepid tagger without the paint.
I’ve woken from hopeless misery
to somewhere indefinable