if this is hell, at least it tastes good

there’s a man wrapped up in a seizure
sewn shut with a guitar string
there’s 70 years of a white-haired rocker
headbop banging in the dark
there’s snot on the floor
and cocaine caught in the folds of a bartenders brain
there’s tonic
and a stomach pain
there’s publications afoot
a pear, a tomato, and NyQuil
there’s a bohemian dream here somewhere
and a girl speculating the validity of rancid organ players
there’s an intense watchful eye
and absolutely no way of getting around this fire hydrant