Artichoke Prick

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It is my duty as an asshole
To describe my time eating artichoke hearts
The delicate procedure of
Teaching her to extract the heart past the prick petals,
Only to squeeze a bit of lemon, burp and count aloud the days until she stops bleeding.
I’m not cold.
I’m I.C.E.
Raiding all shape out of my sprayed life.
The city of Los Angeles speaks through me alone.
They drown , calling lifeguards the Loch Ness.
But their portraits bounce off my gold chest like bad checks.
Right on, write-off.
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