Not for the pirouette of the room,  the discordance of my feet,  head and  heavy eyes —  the furniture all but  sticking out its legs beneath me  while the gin  burns a hole in my gut,  I'd have jotted down something  smart  about the beauty of some mundane or  sorrowful thing.  //  Something about  the way she bites into ripe peaches  with sloppy kisses instead of teeth.  Beads of juice like gemstones — citrine gemstones that  tumble down her chin and  shatter on the floor  (or some such nonsense).  //  Something about  life's dumb sadness;  how melancholy is sewn to flesh  as the price of admission.  Stitched in deep to ensure  all the gore and shit  stays inside  (or some such nonsense).  //  Though what saddens me most:  I haven't the time to write down  all the stupid, roiling thoughts  that are soon buried  in whatever place my head finds first;  be it the pillow or  the floor.    [1](https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1cwpz8u/comment/l4xozns/?utm_source=share&amp;utm_medium=web3x&amp;utm_name=web3xcss&amp;utm_term=1&amp;utm_content=share_button)  [2](https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1cwklt4/comment/l4whw92/?utm_source=share&amp;utm_medium=web3x&amp;utm_name=web3xcss&amp;utm_term=1&amp;utm_content=share_button)