The Dizzy Squishyness

Last night I threw up all
over my portraits. The girl
I love in paint now covered
with my stomach. Too drunk
and stupid to think of what
I had done, I stomped all
over the canvases sitting
on the floor. Each as disloyal
as the next, none refusing to
give under my weight, I then
took a match to them. Which
like my feet, did nothing.
Finally I got fed up with the
smelly masses of canvas,
vomit, and the small imprint
of both shoes and match ash.
I heaved them out my bedroom
windows onto my neighbor's car.


Note: Nothing particularly interesting about this poem, just wanted to write something that was a bit more abstract but also storylike. As bizarre and confusing as usual :) Is this a poem? I don't really care.