The good to the last drop feeling.

That's what they tell me
the
good doesn't last, you must get used
to rolling with the tide, don't fight
the undertow. If I'm lucky, the
last thing I'll see is the sun sliding under with me, just a bright
drop in a vast ocean of
feeling.

I can't stick to treating my clients like meat.

I hate writing poetically about myself, I
can't abide my being on the page. I'd like to
stick my pen in my literary eye
to blind myself to myself, and restrict my
treatments to my
clients, the homeless junkies, anything exterior -
like the birds outside, little flying bits of
meat.