by Andrew J. Stone
It is the caricature
of Captain Morgan
& Coke regurgitated
in this never
ending nonexistence
staining the toilet in
a suite-styled dormitory.
After the initial eruption
three aftershocks plummet
ghost-flesh into a caterpillar
coma where the only
succulence surfaces in
the depths of a woman’s
water-wet bathroom floor.
So. We spoon this Technicolor
shit called soup into lips
widely pursed and internally
wonder if hell exhumed
will ever cease its pain pounding.
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