poetry, trouble, Uncategorized

joe vicodin and the six packs

Lennon and McCartney. Jagger and Richards. Simon and Garfunkle. Things come together and magic happens. Trips are planned, gentle trips, lacking dopey-ness, engaging pharma-groovicals. People have pain they find ways to alleviate – medicate – wait, I have no pain.

But when things come together, and before they fall apart, I have even less pain. One Joe drinks six; this Joe drinks six with Vicky. Sweet girl, fucking nurse, makes everyone feel better. Take that, Foundry Joe. You drink for a living. I think for I remember this poem. Poem? You ask? Maybe, shit, I don’t know. Poemess. Vicodress. Drink and mess. Things fall apart. And I do hate that dude. Mostly. Don’t mock my poem from beneath your internet.

[Musical Interlude: Little Feat: Time Loves a Hero]

On to the poem. Poem? You ask? It’s old. Here goes…

He calls himself
The Eminem of the Internet.
Cocky and sure, he slips out from darkness
to rap someone on the head.

But he’s funny and he knows it,
biting; down the throats of
unsuspecting posters.

He’s street and he knows it,
smart enough
to never stick around long enough
to listen to their cries in the light.
On to the next
punk who decries his comeuppance.

Bang! Shoots anger
from his index finger
the context never lingers,
the contest is over.
I win…
again.

He knows it – he’s right.
Shoots on sight.
Righteous.
Tight.
The Eminem of the Internet.

His name
is probably
actually
something
like Barry.

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