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