riding this dream state
a place where tip toes are not needed
stuck behind the eight ball
the place the super ego shines
with hot breath on the back of your neck
riding the rails with my dick in my hand
and the Bukowski in me takes over
that dream state
where nobody really wins
and nobody really cares
a quiet haze with muddled ink and stoned libido
just deep enough under the skin
when appropriate becomes... in
lines are crossed just enough to keep me
slightly uncomfortable
and at the end of this knotted rope
I am always gonna get laid
drunk at 3am
I will always drink one more beer and
dream of sweet, southern skin
or fast talking neurotic stoned eyelashes
to be full of spring and lust and confusion
full of struggle
hate, love, indifference
always in the middle of this fucked up fight
the fight between nipple clamps and expensive perfume
and the fight between God and me.
