Manic whiskey babe
writes really good emails after she
slept through her morning meeting
cracks a Rainier
just to feel better
Manic whiskey babe
gets poured an entire bottle of free red wine
doesn’t like the cheese this time but
its her only dinner so
she eats it
Her suffering is encrypted in
plain clothes poems circled in chalk and
hill jaunts
its the thrill of numbness, its
finding solace in alcoholics
Manic whiskey babe is
getting prettier
getting uglier
she’s a night warrior
loves mornings
but often misses them
enjoys pungent Brut on daddy’s skin and
vintage Burberry perfume that
Mom found in some thrift store on
Sandy Bouvelard
Manic whiskey babe’s
heart is served on
a silver platter
bloody and pumping
to be feasted on
in a Telegraph hill apartment
She’s less flesh and
more silver
a sliver of coked-out robot
mixed with soft, hairy hippie baby
a Birkenstock hanging from a
string of pearls
chicharrones, hen of the woods
steamer clams and sex with
old Italian men
she says fuck cans of fish for
fifteen dollars
I’ll take mine fresh
Manic whiskey babe
is a poised mess who
doesn’t like pretension or
fake progressivism
she knows a good one when
she sees it
Manic whiskey babe
is me
is us
we’re getting prettier
getting uglier
we’re everything all at once
we’re in the gutter together and
luckily
I like gutters