Three Different Ways

How much fat shit can you talk
in a smacked up hour or two?
I know, or rather, I knew
how to chew down,
spin out, contain, seep up,
in three different ways,
back in the days,
the good old,
very old,
better left untold,
beautiful haze.

Better left untold?
Here I am, spitting out,
and the fat shit I talk now
could never compare
to how tongue and wit danced
defaced, defecated, dominated.
Or at least, that's what I thought
when the haze and the slur
of three different ways
to spin out, contain, seep up
was the kindest of friends,
letting me love my dancing,
dominating fat shit wit.

I never understood
that no one understood,
but my beautiful haze
and I.

Never dominating,
always dominated
by seep up, untold,
smacked up hours,
three different ways,
and beautiful haze.

How much fat shit can you talk
when breathless from numb nerves
who can not communicate
the fatigued limbs, back, head
because seep up
and beautiful haze
will not let you know
how tired,
so far from bold,
beautiful, daring,
and dominating
you really are?
When you parade what-have-you,
whatever you have,
a skillful charade of attraction,
and do your thing, what-wanted,
whatever they want,
to perhaps, perhaps,
lower the odds
for another shot
at one
of three different ways
to that beautiful haze.

What-have-I?
What-had-I?
Whatever I had,
somehow always seemed
just about enough.
So when I sacrificed it all,
put the matches to
the patches of youth,
it was just about enough
to lover the odds
for a few more days,
of fat shit, seep up
and that god damn
beautiful haze.