mobius time-fuck

if I wait at the bar
poised in an Irishman's
hands, but clothed
in sequence as a tool

I will raise up my pint
to the absurdity
and profundity of it all
as if swollen by circumstance

a weird ripple in time
loops around my face
like a thousand serpents
cloistered by God

I have worshiped the bottle
for to long, it seems
but I shape the future
with my eyeballs and ream

the clothing of this certain doom,
clings to me like plastic sheeting,
as purposeless and swollen
as a falling whale

but the sky is breeding whales
in blubber clouds
I am done with this foolish
cheese sandwich of doom!
Goodbye, world!

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