20
Cock Cousins Disappearing in the Rust Belt
When There's No One Else Left to Fuck
by Justin Karcher
Last night an ex slapped me hard across the face
We were at a bar and I was blacked out
A friend told me about it in the morning
Apparently I asked for another
That’s the kind of lover I am
I’m also a high-functioning alcoholic
At least I don’t have delirium tremens
I think that’s the problem with America
It has stopped drinking
And it’s experiencing severe alcohol
Withdrawal symptoms
Confusion and hallucinations
It’s like what Oscar Wilde said
“They’ve promised that dreams can come true
But forgot to mention that nightmares are dreams, too”
My worst nightmare is a bunch of my ex-lovers
Crowdfunding a strip club to mock me
Where they showcase their squiggles of bones at my expense
Where some high-profile DJ in a star-studded booth spins records
Of my greatest drunk voicemails, when I’m crying like a whale
With a bomb in its mouth, blubbering about my failures
How I miss you, how I’m a fuck-up, how I drink too much,
How I can’t stop, how I’ll never stop, oh the first-world humanity…
My worst nightmare is all my ex-lovers taking off their skins
While dancing to the rhythm of my lowest moments
And all I can do is sit and watch
And make testosterone smoothies out of rocks, car parts and glass
Cause I need to toughen up, cause I think I’m still in love
With every shipwreck in the Great Lakes
And that means I gotta get ice crystals in my blood
And freeze over like the greatest men in American history
Hopeless nautical robots drowning their sorrows in drink and sex
(Cont.)