thought I was having a fuck of a flare-up
no food going down, until it did and I was crying on the insides as my insides poured down the outside of reality
but I'm with the band, ladies
this page ends with a light of a half smoked smoke I found in the ashtray
yeah I thought that fucking flare-up would never stop stopping
then the physical addiction crossed my psychopath.
pathetic, apathetic poets pondering what what to quit and where
there are no answers.
listen with intent while I realize I'm walking a blazed trail,
part of a counterculture caddycorner to my first night naked
not in front of a polar opposite posture the Buddha never taught
yeah, thoughts are bought anymore.
my soulless prose poked holes in the bros,
broke from their mother's last lack of a paycheck
we all try to die, warm in the cold
rolling slow through rocks on roads Eisenhower swore he was warning us about
two tools tickle the twine of my imagination
a creation of theirs back before that foolishly named war was meant to disturb druggies dreaming of days
and I sit in these bars
7 years of yawning through french and I'm stuck sticking it to the man
men named morgan and rockefeller force my hand
hands freezing and I shake around snakes toasting to a new job.
what supports your habit?
writing while worlds collide in march
but it's february
but where had it gone?
my may birthday burst onto the scene quicker than your time can beat the shit out of you.