INGRID SMOKES POT.
Posted: May 22nd, 2011, 8:13 am
Ingrid smokes pot. She liberates it
From Ingeritz who smokes it too,
Tries to keep it hidden in secret places
Like beneath his mattress, inside old socks,
Behind the cistern of the john, and other
Hidey-holes he can think of whether out
Of place or full of shit and stink. She goes
Out to scout for old friends (those still alive
Who’ve not shot through to death’s dark
Door) and wraps herself in one of her two
Coats still intact, shoes stole from a sleeping
Drunk, tee shirt a size too small with Hendrix
On the breast, eyes sticking out expressing tits.
Ingeritz takes harder shit and can’t fuck one bit.
She’s glad for that, she can sleep untouched
By his paws or poxed penis, sucked sore by Venus.
She watches the undone dead, the slow passing
Crowds, as she sits in the doorway of a shop, each
Out to get to work or shop until they’re fucked or
Fit to drop. Her father, years before, sat her down,
Said he was off some place soon to find himself.
Her mother found her god in a bottle, but who
Never saved, gave grace, or took her beyond
The suck and pool of sick, and who left her to
Hang from the bathroom door four inches from
The patterned floor. She remembers this. Like
The first childhood fuck, her mother’s last kiss.
She wonders if Ingeritz will share his harder
Stuff, bring death to her vein, put an end to
Dreams, put lights out in her pissed off brain.
From Ingeritz who smokes it too,
Tries to keep it hidden in secret places
Like beneath his mattress, inside old socks,
Behind the cistern of the john, and other
Hidey-holes he can think of whether out
Of place or full of shit and stink. She goes
Out to scout for old friends (those still alive
Who’ve not shot through to death’s dark
Door) and wraps herself in one of her two
Coats still intact, shoes stole from a sleeping
Drunk, tee shirt a size too small with Hendrix
On the breast, eyes sticking out expressing tits.
Ingeritz takes harder shit and can’t fuck one bit.
She’s glad for that, she can sleep untouched
By his paws or poxed penis, sucked sore by Venus.
She watches the undone dead, the slow passing
Crowds, as she sits in the doorway of a shop, each
Out to get to work or shop until they’re fucked or
Fit to drop. Her father, years before, sat her down,
Said he was off some place soon to find himself.
Her mother found her god in a bottle, but who
Never saved, gave grace, or took her beyond
The suck and pool of sick, and who left her to
Hang from the bathroom door four inches from
The patterned floor. She remembers this. Like
The first childhood fuck, her mother’s last kiss.
She wonders if Ingeritz will share his harder
Stuff, bring death to her vein, put an end to
Dreams, put lights out in her pissed off brain.
