Cyber-Crush Sundays

Muted Miles and a Ben Webster tenor

Slow move with a corpse on the kitchen tile, my toes are cold

Whisky is saran wrap around the organs

It won’t be gone until Tuesday night


Cyber-Crush Sundays, too much work for the week, nothing gets done

My phone should be nail gunned onto my bald spot


I have to remember to look at good people

No more nudies, fall asleep jerking off, a changed chap, ambivalent about things

Eye bags stay like vacation memories


And somewhere the pill heads are checking their fantasy lineup

Somewhere a cyber-girl thinks she’s too fat, she’ll snap a picture of herself drinking a smoothie

I will not respond but I will stare at it while I take a bath

In the bath I fake-read

I take pictures of me fake-reading

I think about other days


I swim in a cyber-crush on a Sunday


No likes today, fucking hates me





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