First I spoke to the dead. Dull. Then I spoke

to the gods and got cum over your face.

Fucking sober was different: without coke,

skag or das chronic, finding that hard grace

to fill you with jarred me out; as in, “freaked,”

and I streaked your cheek. The gods are vulgar,

being divine. They sound like a gasp shrieked

in pure need, unless that was me. “Gusher

force,” you called it. Whatever, Muse. Take this

with you, proof that someone once volunteered

for das ass. Back in primes, they say. Bad times,

I bone, drunk dead more and more without bliss.

Drunk dead moan. Lovers groan. Gods mumble weird

words, cum-crusted. Das ass; rhymes upon crimes.