Here We Went Round the Mulberry Bush

I, I, I

It's the sixties all over again,
and I am standing on the sidelines
jerking off into a Dixie Cup that
is a donation to nowhere.

I am a genuine fake Picasso.

I remain blurred; Photoshop is no help.

I sold my house
so I could write this poem.

I've got ice cream in my pocket,
and Jesus was my Sugar Daddy last night.

I eat airplane peanuts
weeks after they are served.

The only forgiveness I want is from my cat–
my girlfriend has a dog.

Sometimes I doubt my commitment to Sparkle Motion.

I've got beer on my shoulder.

I tend generally.