Drunk and tired and sore, mosh pit fatigue, malt liquor cologne, and weed breath. We used to be partners in crime back in the day, scams and jams, rolling drunks on wall street. You were the bait and I was the switch, but we split up acause i couldnt keep it in my pants. Still friends kinda but feelings hurt like week old bruises, yellow now but still tender. crashing in slowmotion, one last bowl and VCR in empty bedroom, you start shuffling through the stacks, wanting to watch dennis hopper chainsaw massacre till we pass out. 20 minutes in, bad scrambled distorted tape satellite feed jumps to 80s blow out perm pron star, the one that died, going down town and upside down. The once burning embers spark a little in our drunken state, closer together, like old phonebook ad, our fingers do the walking. Zippers down, spike belt hits floor, legs spread as dream land lust takes over. Its seems new, and older still, as your spit covered hand makes soft hard and dry wet, almost embarrassed how easy it was to make you come home...one last time
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