Ipecac by Emmett Mathison

We were almost asleep in the gutter when she asked me to tell her something sentimental so

I asked her what she was wearing when I was her strange and nameless bartender.


Earlier that night before we got drunk I promised her I’d throw up if she had to.

The most sentimental thing I could have told her as we drifted off was that I had to throw up.


Not from the wine or meat or potatoes she’d fed me,

but the words in my stomach turning to ipecac.


And all the different ways I had tried to ejaculate these words without painting her green.



the trash you’re sitting on looks like Olympus;



you make this gutter shine, baby,

your bad breath turns me on.

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