Pickle

How idiotic you are. You have become invisible.
Stale brine washed down with vodka and limes.
Taste your own taste buds. Sour, sweet, sorrow.
Slip off your dress then hike across Mount Wishaka.
Each hitch hiker you come across whistles & salivates.
How moronic your voice sounds!
Do you not believe in social sanctity?
I dream. You dream.
We all dream of gold plated arches.
This stench is our stench.
Lie back in your self fulfilling excrement.
There is no whipped topping for these tears.
How abused we are!
Place my thumb inside your brine and refer to it as Fickle.
Pickled.
Fickle.