phony

There is an art to puking well
to puking with conviction
with direction
with the hope of a better tomorrow.

There is the moment of sublime relief
and the wretching agony of up-and-out
becomes the comfort of an expelled demon
from a war-weary system of me.

But I am not here at almost-3am
to speak of puke
or feel better

I am here to start to die
another little bit

And you might think that's melodramatic
or even frightening
but last I looked

before my fever
and raging headache

before the nausea
before I almost fell down the stairs
dizzy and weak

you were getting older
every single minute
and didn't have the balls to notice.

You'll die too
and I won't be the least be surprised.

I've puked up more life than you'll ever live
and I am sad for you.

The little chunks of joy
i try to hold down
but can't
and the big chunks of fetid fury
that form projectiles in my sloppy pink spew

It's all just passion,
nothing you will ever understand

Pass me that towel so I can clean myself off
and get back to the death of me.