Wearily watching dream dregs
from puked up guts clog the shithouse chutes
a jaded giggling grabs his flabby frame
and, chuckling, Charlie smokily croaks
"O! but these fat cloaked abs
and mushy glutes want work!”
Such the silly quips of this quixotic gent
who, certainly unbowed, but- yeah, sure- bent
decides he’s seen way worse...
with a subtle thud leans his hamm’ring head
against the cool white graffittoed tiles
imagining Flanders fields, that woeful waste-
life running away in steaming red runnels,
the dead and blasted bodies in the mud.
A myoclonic jerk yanks him thankfully
from such a bunch of moribund imageries
and his guitar neck neglecting too soft paw
rises to his unsinging throat,
a lame mock in the cracked mirror,
a too noire note to pretend-apply the noose...
Exiting disgruntled with his decrepitude
Charlie resolves himself to an ambitious dose
of sculpting calisthenics and yoga poses,
his oer’stressed joints and cockeyed chakras to loose.
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