I  want to eat poached eggs
How crazy  
I want to eat breakfast now
Actually I rather go to sleep
Oh bother on goes the housecoat
A cup of tea will be just fine ..

I settled for toast and peanut butter tea lol folks

The spawn of the soft drink,
During the simple times faded away,
Coca-Cola and soda water,
Enjoyed by all grandfathers,
A time of simplicity,
Passed into history,
A golden age,
Now tarnished by time,
And devalued by the present.


I was in mezzanine ----- With a clear view
Of the discordant ----- Third act reunion scene

I was a child
Drinking wine
In my found-footage memory
Guided by lights
And whispers
Casting glass
From my house of stone

I remember
Hearing footsteps
Outside my bedroom window
Man of straw
Wax figurine
Melting in my grasp
I remember
Rose gold
A trembling hand
Running through my hair
A shuddering wind
Cutting through the sheets
The skylight darkening
Saying goodbye
But never speaking the words

I wait here
I sit comfortable
With the most uncomfortable awating.

I don't wait for anything in particular,
Maybe I'm just getting psychotic
Or just now fully understanding what an artist does
In particular a writer,
                          The bleed
                                  The invisible wounds
                                          The drinking
                                                 The foul sour mood.

I haven't been drinking that much
I've exercised like a maniac
And that might explain my couple-day-break from writing.

Fuck this
Screw all the poems
Smash those beers
Even break my guitar

Just don' leave me waiting in vain.
Come with me, let's split the world into angels and demons
Let's blame them all
Let's play like little brats
Let's let the soul shine brilliantly
Let's smile, laugh and cry in the summer rain

Come bleed with me.

july 1st, 2017
3:56 a.m.
Kat Jun 29

I don't drink baby
But because of you
I've never wanted to burn my throat
With that poison more in my life

Rose L Jun 22

God! Bring me down a trail of violets
Bright violets for my love who drinks too much.
For there is no fault in evenings spent dancing to old songs -
writhing, primordial dancers, our shadows burnt onto the rocks behind by fire
the air gliding around us like water in a stream.
We are heavy things. Our bones are filled with blood
and when we grasp each other we rip the stems apart
And oily petals seep from underthings.
Red, thick hot oily petals
Rose petals
That weep for us and die for us as we lie
Clasped together like thorns
Too late to continue our travels together
I will come back and bury you, I promise.

I like the nastiest bars,
Those where the waitress is called names
But she doesn't care 'cause she's too kind
And tries to keep it all clean for 400 a month.

Those bars have drama
Whole worlds and stories continuosly entangling,
Whisky on rocks, vomits and shouts
Here comes Rita the waitress to clean it all again;
Dogs bark in the streets
Women cry in their beds as men get drunk
And kick the innocent trash can over a discussion about gibberish.

The loner cat lurks the street at night
Hunting for hamburgers that fell off the trash can,
The drunk men start a fight,
'Here comes the police!' 'Run-run!'
One falls, gets the blame and a free trip to county jail,
Three others join a party and feed the whores
Money and cock --- tails.

Finally, the last one goes home
To beat the crying wife over the same junk
And the repressed anger only a coward can hide.

Anon Jun 17

something about isolation
it impregnates the mind
with an army of phantoms
echoes of their cannibal march
like the hollow drumming of wings

deafening catatonia

liberated by slivers of futile rage
and the silken burn
of golden intoxication.


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