How Practicality Killed that Spanish Dog/ I do what I’m Told/ A sin
There aren’t no Glamour and Stars to being a Mule
Gorging oneself, a Glutton of cellophane cooked shut
Several baggies of queer tasting white powders brilliantly Bitter to the Taste
A Meximelt Cocktail of Rhohipnol, GHB, and Black Tar Heroin
I take a Hard drag on my Cigarette. One more Girlfriend and you’re home,
Scott free in another-Land, Someone else’s place, Someone else’s Dog
Human Trafficking they call us, a semi-Truck ethos of likeminded Organs convalesce in the back
We Shuffle into the sweltering trailer, One woman moves a rupture up her Spine
Her heart starts Attacking her in tridents of the Lore of Drugs; she’s already a dead Dog
Road kill twitches, Clouded Oracles All
Border Checkpoints are a Fiction; Sympathies of the kind that often get people Dead
And the undertow of the Girth of drugs, we’re silent, no noises only hundreds of breaths
Tempera terra cotta roof tiles accompany our journey, indifferent cargo, how I envy you
Then the Rouge breaks through, we blush to the flashlights cold stares, unblinking
He runs, gets shot, we stay, we live, Sucked Dosed, burgeoning Semi-Coat, and a Little bit comes bleeding through
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