You've rolled yourself into a big fat cigar
every day since fifteen and made your hair
smoke-sticky and glib-long and your teeth
as fuzzy yellow as you can get ‘em.
You drive your eyes, filled with leeches,
down into inky book depths, like oil drills,
and s** up black on black on black
while I can't seem to keep even a drop.
You pal around with heavy hitters
in three-piece suits and four-part names,
but sink calmly into flannel with a fart
just to show how play-it-cool you really are.
You know how to take a picture from the side
as if to say you've more important things to
consider than a camera, but probably it's cause,
straight-on, you've got a squat face with squint eyes.
You think your love's the biggest whale around
because you felt just like a shed corn husk
when your brown-eyed girl went off to India,
but then you prosed your angst for pats on the back.
You are, in short, the sharpest pencil I know
and so this is the end of the line for your brain,
which I am swallowing wide and whole, as a
famished snake does the naked and vital egg.