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.