Whiskey Poem

I. Woke up in a field of whiskey And torn bras strewn Like spider webs across The broken rusted truck parts I call home. This field of dreams Is dying one old man Soaked in old spice Hoarse with old crow At a time. And while the sun is always rising For those whose flesh has not yet Begun to rot from the over activity of swollen sexual organs, I am now beginning to eat my days One bowl of grits...
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