$1.49
The rot gut of a million gutters spilling guts and bowel juice into a juice that’s best in the guts cold. Arms fall off sometimes, with the heartless burn of no arms leading you to question a few things, like how you can still hold onto the bottle so tight like baby, how the spin is liftoff, how you form a whole with the ground again. The answer turns your eyes into the back of your head and turns your face to the wind and opens up that heaving chest cavity and lets the world slip inside of you. You do that, you let the world drip down your chin and into your guts, where the world spins and distills. It’s how you make sense of the damn thing. It’s how the guts churn life into gold off in the grand distance of two feet, onto the black brick wall behind an empty corner store.
Tags: Thunderbird Wine