all the realness of fakeness
through the claws, teeth, lips of words
drags the stinkers and the stringers
out of mistranslated vocal cords

and i ponder the the metal of lime vodka
with wet eyes scanning the skinned dolls
what if when tomorrow will be over
still, i will not find pride of what i'm worth

there is something in the psyche
that inspires the stirring of regret
in this man, on this night, and this endeavor,
deciding between a desire to be better
and the need to be content with being worse