I didn’t see the moss at the foot of the white-clad border walls
because I was holding you by the edges,
so to not crease, rip or crinkle you.

The road is always long, but this street
takes the ****. The same trees grow and repeat,
twisting up into great nothings acting as a canopy,
but not quite pulling it off as the rain broke through.

You looked comfortless in my arms, as though you’d
rather be somewhere different in a lot less clothing, and asleep
waking to a familiar ceiling nearer to the weekend than this weekday
in May.

Sometimes, if the wind is right and ushered correctly,
the crane lights of the night highlight that moss
and only those searching will be aware that
it lives at the bottom of a white-clad border wall
just over there.

She wasn't alone on the stage
she had her nerves
she had her sweaty palms
and shaky fingers
her rapid breath
she had the spot light
the audience
and her busted old
acoustic guitar
she had the limelight
drinking from it greedily
she had the limelight
that she was allergic to
recklessly taking it in
she had the limelight
and she had me

For the girl with the bow in brown hair,

            the heat from the upstairs
restaurant cures the street where we walk,
            the freight’s in on the track,
you can tell by the horns,
            I from the diesel smell below the
afternoon clouds, faint above,
            sometimes when we speak a heart rate
somewhere peaks,
            another graph pinned to an office wall
shows this clear,
            sometimes when we talk tense chests
fear the answer you may say,
            the graph strays past paper and onto
those office walls, in red with a palmed
            smudge where you forgot where
the words ended.

            For the girl with the bow in brown hair,
your eyes are theatre-light reflections in twenty-four hour
window panes sat packed neatly off the corner of West 47th
and 7th, for you’re my central Times Square.

You’ve paid for somewhere pretty to smoke
yet not realised that your decorated,
thin cold icing and sweet to taste, lips
will be ruined from every second cigarette ****.

But I forgive you
because your eyes are olive,
tried and tested and true.

Five days. It has been five days since I've wrote anything down.It's typical that inspiration comes when I'm furthest from the pen: driving, working, high, drunk. I'm drowning in excuses when all I need to do is attach my lazy *** to the chair and keyboard. I still haven't fixed my typewriter.
I prefer the company of girls because I've always felt distant from my father. Funnily enough - people compare us all the time. Even I can see it now, as I am writing this. I don't want to fault him. He worked hard to make my life relatively easy. But the disconnect is there.
These colt 45 cans aren't treating me very well. Neither is my empty stomach. Who cares? not me. Apathy is the plague of the millennial generation. And I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by sanity. Props to Ginsberg for that line.
The night is early and I have work at nine.
I'm going to keep on drinking this awful beer and see what happens.