‘The Hangover House’

This is the Hangover House
It reeks of tuna and a lack of talent
Psychedelic paint peeling to reveal
the resentful mold that festered for years

We forgot to wake up, bad timing, oh well
Here, at the House, time’s a lofty old riddle;
the only false constructs are the failing foundations, and
if walls could talk, they’d blame us for our troubles

Last night we swooned on
our ideals of ourselves
We laughed our throats hoarse
and wrote this long overture—
a foreign and horrid post-mortem,
oh well

We drank grandma’s liquor;
inherited her headaches
We knew the rules were
rigged against us, oh well

we rose and we fell
like stocks, like fevers, like history

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