"dingey" poems
I can't believe I've never been here
a little dingey and smelled musty, which put me off - but what do you expect
the service seemed a bit cold
Just be on the watch
and be wary of the ****** blonde
To top it off, there was a rude punk couple shopping and they continuously got in my way
they seemed pretty shallow and unwelcoming
plus they smell quite funky!
I suddenly liked everything A LOT less
DO NOT LISTEN TO THE NEGATIVE REVIEWS!
WHAT A GEM in the rough! WOW.
(usually HUGEEEEEEEE *** selection)
There were a couple of guys taking off their shirts
Oh yes oh yes oh yes! Vintage ******
it feels SO good!
but not as good
I wasn't in the mood
already had that "worn in" feeling
(dark yellow sweat and green mold stains inside a fedora)
Ewww! tossed that hat back real quick.
This place is just not for me!
Yeah, no thanks.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
Traffic noise and the scent of an approaching thunderstorm
drifts in through the door,
naively left open,
igniting reflections of simpler days spent
smoking cigars behind rusted machinery
and fallen trees in
Grandma's field,
and how we would take picnic lunches
and bottles of *****
to the riverbank,
laughing before the fire
smearing silt onto our faces and bodies,
keeping the sun away
as we walk
across the waterfall,
wading in the stagnant flows of August,
when the water was so hot
it felt like the whole world was on holiday,
all bonfires and suntans
laying us in respite from the heartache
of the winter prairie.
Whiskey and pickup-truck beds
yielding sanctuary
from chores or the chaos
of family.
The same song I'm listening to now
lilting from the truck's cab
so new
and full to the brim with meaning,
while the dashboard lights
illuminated sweetheart dreams
of the city,
averted eyes
revealing the dark
of lies
hidden in the soil,
and how we would leave this place,
surrendering the anonymity
of shooting tin cans off log fence posts,
grass stains and muddy flip-flops
to brick tower exhaust fumes
and a cheap pack of cigarettes
smoked in a dingey bar
over a whiskey sour
and a notebook
covered in country flowers,
painted fingerprints writing
homesick sonnets to lovers
abandoned amongst the cornstalks and glass bottles,
40-proof promises
concocted in homemade stills
and disassembled beneath the city skyline
that obscures those stars
On which we pleaded
and wished for
our emancipation.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC