Lime Juice

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?

Attitude undefined 
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
and lime.

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
and strange.

Willie Watt


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