Poem: 20-Pack Soliloquy

I reach for you,
The way Michelangelo’s
Adam reaches for God.
They say you’re of The Devil,
But God damn…do you feel divine.
As you’re pedaled by Christians and Krishna’s.

Cause you make me feel strong
And calm like Lucifer’s Pride,
A Trazodone wet dream,
With a stare of James Dean,
Till I’m forgetting,
I’m your slave
Glistening on the gallows…
Cough…Cough…
So many men have died
And literally slaved for you.

But you’re Bogart’s right hand man,
A Noir Film Flavored Popsicle,
A salacious siren
Who comforts during calamities.
You’re Dr. Phil, Dr. Laura, Dr. Kevorkian
That costs only 5.55 with tax and a taxidermy.

Yeah, you’re My Vice,
You’re my Valentine
You’re my sweet Virginian
Who violates and vindicates
With voracious escapes,
As my throat scrapes—
Damn…you’re a lot to take—baby.

But you’ve been reveled in rhetoric,
That sounds reliable in rubber rooms,
Where smooth southern voices sway
Like George Washington’s toupee—
It looks better and sounds better than the truth.

But you’re my Rogue making out with Magneto.
The after loving love, that I love to lie with,
But that after taste is an act of treason.
Ooh, My Turkish Queen, who ain’t just killing Armenians,
Devouring handfuls in the Harems of the World,
While the Camels lightly die into the sunset.

But when I hear that intoxicating sound
Like a fire-cracker burning fajita fresh off the grill,
Sizzling like Wile E. Coyote’s Acme Dynamite
I become too tired to run away like the Road Runner.
I’m just left, licking and living through my lips
Fixed on the taste of you:
Mmm!!!mmm!!!!mmm!!!
Better than M&Ms dipped in methadone,
Topped with some KY pussy dipped in Krispy Cream–

As you are better than any first kiss  
Any first love
Any first anything…
But in the end,
I’ll always be dying
For just one more taste.

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