I confess, it’s such a mess.
I ****ed it up so good and proper.
Adopted her shame in a roundabout way.
Well, what am I saying? I get paid today.

I get what I want until I don’t want it.
Then I get it some more and my stomach churns glue.
And all of my answers are written in ledgers,
and margins for martyrs and letters to you.

And sometimes I get cut by the telephone wire,
and a metaphor asks me if I’d like a drink.
It’s simply a simile summed up in sirens.
The blue and red sharks leave bite marks on the pink
little holes in my heart and my stomach and summer
over and under, the throwaway bender,
turgid with treason, caressing your stutter,
slender and sudden, a fine, foreign blunder.

The delegate gunner comes home from the desert.
‘He held his heart.’ I did, I did.
‘And ate of it.’ Your son, your daughter,
your lesser productions
of semen and piss.
I miss you, I guess, I confess it’s just timing.
I guess that my rhyming just ****ed me up more.
The key to my heart is not in a bottle, but,
there’s always a duplicate hole in the door.

Really strong ending C. I liked it!!!!