three pound thirty nine wine will do just fine—
it’s all the same; disappointment comes too easy,
staring into sad bright screens on cold, bare nights.

nothing lasts forever, not even love nor a fuck—
heavinesses, relative, like sadnesses, brisk, sharp;
I despair, then weep, wake and sleep; days shorten.

what use are vices to the fucking dead, seriously—
a few times I have breathed, and lived, dreamed;
pussy on my mind like oxygen, cold wine, warmth.