38. Blackout

Only shards of the previous night remain
embedded in my flesh as bleak reminders:

the perfectly circular Germs burn from
an errant cigarette, like we’re back in ‘81

the scratch marks across my back
the bruises to shins, arms and elbows

knuckles all twisted and busted like the keys of
a piano that’s fallen from a twelve story window.

Throat hoarse, nasal passages burning dirty
gums bleeding and distended tongue sore and

swollen from eating the pussy of that girl in the
Toys In The Attic T-shirt and pixie boots

the taste of her dirty hole rotting in my mouth
like a skip rat that crawled in there and died.

Kidneys trying to box their way out from the inside
heart thumping irregular; lungs like a rusted cheese grate

a chipped front tooth from a beer bottle that
actually makes me look pretty fucking cute

and finally, a foreskin that looks like the shed skin
of a snake that slithered off into the undergrowth

My self-administered autopsy over, I stand slowly
and glide to the shower, stopping briefly in the kitchen

to find – yes! – a couple of cold ones left in the fridge.
I crack one open and drink it down, cold jets to my temples.