we're left with a flood
of flotsam that drools
ink into keys and they
like i are nothing on him
we copy we ignore we spit
i hate us but more i hate you
i'm not afraid to drink this last
bottle and write to release that
last ounce instead of jacking off
into a frayed, old sock; an odd sock.
but you cover up our lack of anything
by blinking aimlessly at the clock and
bowling for the big time, take time.
and with you