I will constantly recline
back into this chair
wobble wobble
throw back my hair
my wet greasy hair
throw back and stare.
Blow out the smoke,
let it out like a joke,
so that others can choke.
Choke on it, choke on my joke.
Now just sit, and let it soak
let your sweat soak
deep into that oak.
Sigh and sit straight,
redistribute your weight,
hurry and empty the plate.
There’s no such thing as fate,
you will die on a certain date.
Constantly recline
so that a figment of the mind
can lose all sense of time,
it is mine and only mine.
It travels like the function of sine
from the wine to the shrine,
where a circle might seem like a line.