1810: I drop my ball sack

I drop my ball sack
into the bowl’s gap
& exhale out of my
arse – a sour split &
burn of [foul] gases
followed by spits &
grunts of red wine’s
overnight damages
inside [we will not
discuss what I said
eight hours before]
Booze talks & won’t
shut up/ Midnight’s
Scrabble is a forfeit
come morning’s hit
on glossy porcelain
of triple scores – so
shower with soaps
& don’t breathe in –
or see my posture –
here – no one prays
for foul drownings –
now flushed & dead

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *