Sad Poems : Alcoholic Poet: Cock Suckers Sad Poetry.

Alcoholic Poet. Poetry Equals Distance Over Time.

Distance Over Time
Sunday 2/01/2009 11:56:00 PM

The clock is broken she whispered as her lips fumbled with his balls. We stretch our legs. As taut as we can. Exposing the target. Then we let go.

Pain is all there is to trust. These rubberbands. Sloppy catheters in our dicks. That backfire on us.

On crippled gods. With their saints all in torn panties. Velocity times pussy marks the hours. In song I wish had never entered my head.

Pretty things in stumped high heels. Fight with the numbers. I chase. Not what's gone, but wasn't hasn't yet been.

Building those mythical devices one broken woman at a pace. Like the secret is to hurt them. Prove tomorrow can't catch up with. Dirty cocks with a a penchant for science.

They're all as stupid as I always knew. Pressing the button. Always waiting. For it to do something. Make me love. Make hate. Anything that could define us.

The button's always been fake. The machine never was. I was always just a man. Without anything to give them.

Still they bite down on the meat. Eager to swallow.

Still chewing. After all these years.

On what hasl always be raw.

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