No Idea Where This Came From...

I am an audio-lamplight walkabout forest fire.
I am a carbonated catastrophe
of scotch and cigarettes
and general displacement
from the meaning of existence.
You know what it means to exist?
It means to hug the toilet,
Instead of some pretty thing;
Some source of comfort traded
For some source of pain.
An empty alley,
A gutter filled with broken glass
Blood, and whisky spew
Forever pouring into your head.

Well I bite the lip that needs me.
I bite it well, and good and hard,
Leaving an impression of posession;
A reference to sex,
A glorious orgasm of the fucking
Mind.

It's so fucking easy
To say fuck in a poem
Since you know it will be shit
When you read it.

It's so fucking typical
To sit and pretend
That words come down like
The stupid rain;
Tonight its a shit storm.