Poem: Hair of the Dog | Poetry | Hudson Valley | Chronogram Magazine
Walkin up the driveway,
a bottle of Meister Yeager
level out the methamphetamine.

over them green mountains & brown streams amudin.

lips licked ripped chewed smacked raw,
a slug with salt on its back.

nosebleeds & sores
a sign of some kind of perfection.
—hope you get them.

sun in dish water in a small sink in Bridgewater.
a brother & sister French kiss
sitting on a couch, cat piss soaked.

i prefer drug induced delusions in summer,
infant Armenian generals impaling politicians & clergy.
death of good, plagues, revenge for all the children.
the end of boredom. nothin about peace on earth.

thoughts like that, compared to your daydreams, find very amusing.

saliva drips off her rare laughter, spitting in my eyes.

i watch mountains swell & snap in black sky Manna-hata
stare down violent cries in tsarist Russia.
it just feels that romantic. It is not.

simply emotion i remember. ain't nothing nostalgic about it.

(a thread of yarn split)

get drunk the next morning to avoid the hangover.
try, think of a more genuine form of degradation.
because you can't.

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