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  • Writer's pictureTweakUnique

Drink 2

I’m feeling salty, spicy, pepper, lime, vodka, tomato, worcestershire, and horseradish.

This Mary just got bloody *sip* savor, taste the flavor, no straw here — Ice Ice baby, I make these better, maybe it’s the Titos maybe something other, I can’t put my finger on it, although I just did, printed in red on the line aforementioned should I have more? I’m glad your thoughts mentioned something so lushious as a liquid drug, did you know Jesus’s wine is blood? That’s why he’s got that wry expression, my bloody buddy Christ, dimply cheeks indented.

I used my pick to fish and found a pickled string bean, chewing it up as happy a clam sings or did you not know that shells sing by the seashore? That’s how Sally and Celery usually sell so many more than Mildred and Maeby — always cutting corners and kissing cousins outfitted on flirtation and slow emasculation of socially encrouching on masculinity surrounding in a simple quick incision or bris at circumcision giving infants less pleasure on sexual connection -> fixing bad boys right up -> a chance at ambition no bad apple eaters, snakes in the eve on the eve of bleak December how my backwards eye remembers an infinity of verses upon Pluto’s Neptunian shore ‘cept in the new version of American intrusion has no place or inclusion for sexual seduction contemplated clicked conduction — no thank you sperm eruption -> tick tock off the frenulum pendulum whispering desire — that chance form is cut and the pleasures certainly use, congratulations world you’ve spun me into existence — most women are a nuisance wishing my attraction with their beams of traction gravitation towards me… as I walk by.

And now my mind is blazing connecting without faking gratitude at platitude of my human understanding as much as I am planning past sexual divesting glancing past the window still where on the windowsill is clear beneath my nose as if you didn’t know like my glancing has a place with purpose held in space as it’s something we create

This paper is tastier than my bloody Mary who I remember fondly and whose heart I once obsconded which I broke in pass and longing after poking and prolonging a pleasure I so wanted, desired but slightly fronted — a connection I once hunted is now… something I do: nevermore

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