Ugh! such rude growth, you think; off the photos

that I should’ve never sent. Indulged cheek bulge.

Chuffed to bits. Soft sick’s jaw stretch. Some wino’s

tale. Not yours. The creed, “OV-er-IN-du-LGE,”

rolls like a muddied drop over and not

out of Bowery’s lips and yet dewy’s mud

and yet sweetly’s immature; a sot’s sot.

Fifty-five in ten days. All the lurid

details. Matted. Fatted. As in the Calf.

Decaf. Now regular. Impaled then crushed

against the wall. Make it gross. Cum like staph,

like snot, like cooties. Make it cute. What gushed

red soft? Sick soft. Retch. Recoil. And we spew.

Again. Warming to a crimson Code Blue.