the only way to kill pretentious poems is to fill them with mortar or an under oiled motor

[memorandmpulley]

inebriate in the palm of
clammy handshakes swelled to grip
nothing besides and fall
below a high rope left dangled.

these things never made us more yet
a swagger shook off of the shoulder
of a now dead demon trials
to climb again over bottom end.

cheers and empty glass
and hehe good laugh
all the roads be my liver
only the curbs drink my liquor

this is to mah homies
no, no shit to quiver