waking slowly, feeling small, pushing thoughts.
counting days, measured in weeks, measuring freedom.
revelers, in small packs, crept treacherously over
the irish and the italian snuck out before midnight
like a sense of who the fuck cares, i pulled a 'Gary' lumps
me in a pot,
with a german hangover, poots needs the bottom of the pot.
chewing again, is that good or bad.