Poggabocks and Prickabushes. Part 2

I slapped the shit out of her for fucking with my time to write. Distressed by ambient lighting and fighting for creativity I push commitment to the periphery like the Gravitron. She hates my moustache, I hate her bedbugs. They draw blood like a kindergartner. Sepia based with a smattering of pink. Gangly legs, one eye bigger and green hair. I suppose she makes me feel this small.

I was relieved when she left, but missed her when she was gone. Know that drill? Carbide bit twisting into your lower lumbar. A two month virgin hating his empty bed and dream fucking his body pillow.

The cold she gave me turned into the flu. Busted sick and bootin into the same dirty toilet I sullied with shit a scant second prior. I know this knot. It was tied before. Doubled over sweating and seeing pictures of the past.

Straighten in the mirror shuddering with the last bucks of sickness. Don your work pants. Button your shirt. Call the office every sunday asap. Work with your cowardliness. Gargle water and toothpaste. Have you spat out disgust and stared at your scars?

Broken teeth open brew bottles reaping what you sowed ploughing fallow ground faux smiles and quick quips garnering snickers like fat kids on Halloween. Interstitial, divide your peccadillos for consumption by your friends. Those that laugh, knead, like dough, your friendship.