Dear Alice, the Rabbit Hole’s Out of Gin and the Liquor Store is Closed

Pregnant with
ideological inertia.

Snort the kaleidoscope, and
chalk it up to a lesser version
of systematic misuse.

Just smoke the damn cigarette, darling;
nobody wants to hear about your daddy issues.

Imbibe the poison, and
select a delusion to foster;
we’re a generation without God, so
we all grew up in fatherless homes.

(Son-kissed sangria
holy spirits.)

Saturate the addendum
in nuclear ambrosia, and
barricade the enclosure.

You’re a page full of ellipses
in a book about closure, and
I still remember the way we fucked
fucked each other over.

We’ve bolstered our immunities 
to the precipice of disbelief; 
and you look at me with malice and seethe
as I write, “dear Alice,
Wonderland ain’t all it’s cracked up
to be.”

We’re all just drinking and smoking and pretending
as we await
an apocalypse of endings;

but I’ve got a front row
to the gun show, and
I could use a 

Willie Watt



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