RAGE THE NIGHT: Blithering

When you're sitting at home alone dressed in nothing but your tee shirt and socks, gorging yourself out on the decadence of chocolate chip ice cream from the tub - I hope that whatever it is you are mindlessly doing on your laptop is worth the feelings of silent guilt and shame that you feel when you finally step on the bathroom scale.
As for those of you who read poetry to entertain your cyclical nature as insatiable mammals - God help you, you miserable fucksticks.

I have more poem for your appetites. Savor these words. Swish them around in the front of your mouth like a 5 ounce glass of chilled whole milk on a warm day. Suck on them, devour them like they are guts - and you are a zombie from the popular television show THE WALKING DEAD. I know you can't get enough.

I shouldn't be encouraging this. Poetry is a gateway drug into the vast abysmal nature that is literature. But I do it so well. You might as well call me the fucking kingpin. So, without any more fuss - take this baggie. Read this poem so that you might crawl shamelessly onto the next high. But just know that you'll get no sympathy from me at all.

BLITHERING

Blithering, bumbling buffoons of the night -
HEAR MY CALL!
I,
who so gallantly strode
upon the white stallions
of verb.