Bottle half full, bottle half empty. 
The man who associates with bottle lusts,
Desperate for its cool curves in his ever-diminishing grip.
How he yearns,
By the most desperate association in his throat-loans from,
The Goose-Necked apparition.
For the first bitter, warmth of a kiss.
Of a mem'ry. 

He swallows.
He breathes.
He drowns, in contempt and temprustness,
TEMPESTRNUNUSS. One Hell,
Of a spoken-word spiral staircase.

He sells,
The used cars of the beatnick ryhme,
in beatnick time.
Traitor!

He buys,
A taste of nothing. It's his everything he traded for.
Damaged goods and damaged bads,
Dirty hoods and dreams:
Duct. Tape. Clad. 

'Baby, it's not you, it's me.' 
'Baby, kiss me one more time.'
Of course, baby.
Yes, Love.
But my eyes are closed to remember
My addiction
To warm christmas turtle doves.

Why'd you leave, baby? 
A cheap used car salesman.
Selling stitch-open promises,
Seams bursting with regret.

Everybody's got a story to tell to
Pitch to you their lives,
In exchange for a necklace made.
Of bottlecaps.

You break your flow, 
Remember your long necked,
Seething.
Wet. 
Harlot. 
She's all I want in a world
full of what I need.

For a second, in the dark,
let this work out for me.
Someone, in sincerity, 
Lie and say I'm beautiful.