Scum-puppies

Hungry for a drink, but half past full,
a bottle of ketel one and a jar of pickle juice are on standby.

Stomache grumbles, staples in your smile, malodorous
maladjusted mommies mummified for miles.

I feel tired and twined, left behind and begotten.
Unsettled, hog-swallowed, hindranced, harpied and hollow.

Making up words, slaying slews of birds, bitchslapping them out of the sky,
scoring scarves, carving dwarves, harboring hordes of whores,
adoring adorable adorned dorm room doors.

I miss Alan.