A fortune teller told me I’d die when I reached nineteen;

I have four years on that fortune teller.


I was a drug addict for four years, no five, but I’m not about that now; I think.


I’m bound by Bizzarro and the Ten Commandments, so I never eat cheese and my pjs say Superman.

My content is bonnet bound, meaning my mind is wrapped in soft cotton, as though to not let escape a single sound.

My pilgrimage is raunchy, caught up in cocks and lobster bisque soup.

Pour me a river and cry me a fountain. My eyes bleed when I see the light.


One thought on “[Bl](G)izzards

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