god im drunk alive when im here,
gulf shores, im too good for pain
right now, the water surely dyes itself,
liquid indigo, my hair all stiff like an old
walrus’ combover—let me slow down before
im carted off by security. what i mean
is the red moon rising over the dark duvet
of sea makes me wish the bible was a picture
book. to look at a lunar secret
unspoiled by anyone else’s
treachery. to look at the heart
of rapture or the inflamed intestine
of venus and say still not enough.
the stamp of my forever has long been dry.