when you want a *pres*ident

Upside-down and inside-out, you fumble for the shortcut you know exists.
You groggily reach for your beer, though; the metallic blue can chisels you.

"You're slurring already," he asserts, like an observer at an aesthete tent.
"Am I?" you enounciate this insouciantly. You're a ballerina at the Belle Jour.

True to the game, but seconds to the duel.
Without a doubt, a thoroughfare to the eschrichlantry.

No doke, isn't that a nice way to dietcokehead?
And ten million years ensued, of the grandest personality alive.

And you went to a movie
and you went to a friend
and you went to a perkolation of a president
and that was the start of a beautiful lover.

ache.