each poem i write gets worse
relative to expectation
every girl i take to bed
i compare to masturbation

we all have seen the ocean waves
roll over the clumsy giant ancient stones
amidst which crabs in their frantic pace
between the abyss and bliss, find home

i squeeze out remains of worthwhile thoughts
like its a recently-emptied container of toothpaste.
blind, i'll be there, whether i want it or not
over our egos, where even warm whiskey carries no taste