We want to know that the kink is still
there. Now? No, soon. I drink so that I don’t
think so much. Hashish, Vodka and Advil
deletes memories. Who says that I won’t
tell how I failed at the Slam; this stutter,
that lisp, no one wanted to hear such noise.
There was no beat, just radio anger
in my head. Those raw static wires destroy
rhymes which neither strut nor slide. Praise the holes
in my skull — What was kink but our hoodwink
over failure? — Nothing comes naturally
to me — Not even joy over our soul’s
loss, our grief’s flesh. Now? I don’t want to think
except for Absinthe, Gin and Peyote.