jurula glug

by Steven J. Serafiani

morning:
rose early, the swathed
dawn and black joe. feel the
words swoon. head feels
like an ivory

tusked squeeze but today is
the day I write
something of importance,
of stature. of grandeur.

noon:
curly puffs stand in
time with greenwich. that
         fickle tick.
as hazel beacons bob
with seagulls in big blue
tub, I can only think of
self and the messy
thirty I have been
conscious.

night:
bought a bottle of cab with
ideas of wobbling to some
sorta gooddamn truth while
my typer becomes
magnetic
but
just like lunar tide, the
lunar lust begins to

creep. creep
wonders what

the college girls will
be wearing out tonight.

self and sex; what a shitty way to
waste another twenty four.

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