"pabst" poems
pruning fingers from a cold dead hand to gain twenty index
to power point a disjoint nexus, amongst ill guests
to better frame the nameless tool,
thumb-less apes could truck with -
in bands of frantic lack-wits
hording alabaster thumb-tacks
to pin jokes, they don't get.
a lapse in queens, the hard Chess...
an hour glass
with a grain of sand left -
wearing a jet pack, to delay the turn next
that checks your king.
or telekinesis, ghost-grips the silicon
in free fall... on pause to stave off
a game lost.
pruning fingers from another world of empty reach, i grasp -
at long last;
the short girl with the long red hair -
has two eyes, on task...scanning my true intent
with deep shy, heavy lids; a bright green
fixed on my nervous
laughter.
smitten; then, a Pabst
Blue Ribbon
kiss.
and sweet
disaster.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 11:51 PM UTC
when made a designated drinker
for a designated driver.
when stomaching stale pabst
and rationed sweet cider.
when frat boys fulfill
stereotypical homophobia.
when twenty grade A reds
can't last me longer than a dream.
when old man nightclub and triple kills
usurp the crown of moderation.
when you fall asleep
with so much in your blood to spill
like beans,
or milk not worthy of tears,
and i keep a loom in my heart
where i weave a string of everyone
[with myself]
and every fray in warp or weft
is mimicked by the splinters
shuttled to my hand.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
What bad could happen to a boy of sixteen, walking through the woods trying to find a nice spot to smoke and read Slaughterhouse-Five?
But now that I'm thinking about it, Stephen King may or may not have written a book about this exact question, more or less.
And as everyone who has read The Gunslinger Volume Six: Song of Sussanah, knows, everything Stephen King writes happens. Stephen King is God, in this sense.
Nevertheless, I found a nice spot, next to a dried out creek bed, complete with a gallon bucket and the scent of lavender.
And so I sat, and rolled a couple cigarettes, and dove into the mind and time traveling of Billy Pilgrim.
Sitting there, on that bucket, old Kurt spoke to me.
The previous owner of this copy of Slaughterhouse-Five also spoke to me.
With highlights and underlines he allowed me into his mind and thought processes while reading this book.
He underlined every passage that had to do with the Tralfamadorians views on time and the coexistence of every moment.
Soon, it became dark and I could no longer read, having only one cigarette left, I headed home.
Fifteen minutes later I was home, and if Stephen King had written about this event he wrote it as it happened. With no harm and no foul.
And maybe I dislike him for that
and maybe I don't understand why he did that,
why he would wrote a boring tale of a boring boy going on a boring walk in some boring Northern California forest.
And this writing does not feel complete but the Pabst is starting to kick in so I think I'll leave this one alone for now.
And Stephen King **** it, I can't even think of a title for this piece of ****
Nevermind, I got it.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
I Remember how the party was clear as day
Sneaking out and looking to fade away
Lighting a cigarette with red wine
(Pabst Blue Ribbon on ice)
Sweet sixteen and she had arrive
Fixing her dress as she whispered hi, hi
Never knew how she made it so far
Teachers said she'd never make it out alive
There she was my new best friend
casual smoke filled the festive air
While she starts to laugh, holding her shaded lipstick in her other hand
Oh Ana, how I love those guys
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 5:59 PM UTC
Them bastardized youths fell outside, dizzied by a reality unsolved.
Their maws scowled judgment and drooled Pabst down improbable bodies each of them lay in the stink of subtle conformity.
Fiercely unique culture beasts starved away in suburbs; Wikidrifting, those drugged litterbugs scampered.
Dropout fish fast against the current of their time, tired from dancing through desperate crowded nights and disparate lonely dawns, dangling degrees and the specters of success burning incessant their pride.
They were the ******** made so over time contracted by blind parents to nine-to-blithes in which quiet desperation, credit nooses, and irony were the small print.
They were carpenters afraid of their hands. With chisel to headstone, they lied on the hoods of used Japanese cars, panning the radio for a real connection and gazing up at vanishing constellations.
They were their poison and they their elixir, but a cold cigarette was a much quicker fixer of Helplessness Blues and the back of a Bible where a brief intellectual wrote “I am suicidal.”
For how does the turn of the epigram read to those who care less with every new beat of a drummed-up society so high off its piety that seeing stars vanish is simply a shame?
Those ******** dropouts tragically remiss, those Supertramps, Kerouacs, Cohens, and wits.
They were the alternative, urbanite fools that littered alleys with Greek fables and Tibetan tattoos.
Criterion flash cards and the literary canon allowed them to flirt with god in verse and art clues until Pollock’s canvas did rip off their eyelids which left them to know only Socrates knew.
They danced and they writhed, then ****** to pass time, and kept on their passions till lost were their minds. Then they all died, those blasphemous ********
But at least they washed on the back of their crimes.
At least they danced.
At least they were.
And there may be something to movement in chaos.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 8:06 PM UTC
You see a kaleidoscopic spongesque speck pushed into a blur over your vision,
Sitting on air & feathers.
You sit on air rather than feathers,
Incased in drywall,
Surrounded by your worldly possessions,
Drowning in sweat,
Suffocating from air,
The hum of coupled fans waltzes’ into your skull,
A metallic mind prints mass media
Via a melodramatic faux-vintage situation into your skull,
There’s the pitter-patter of post-traumatic pondering in your skull,
A Mexican Coca-Cola clutched in your left hand,
Phillip-Morris owns the pocket on your breast so that they sit closest to your heart,
Pabst Blue Ribbon has carved rights to your liver,
You have an over analytic sense of humor and well-being.
Now you decode your day.
Now you chastise your intuition for lustful engagements with shadow people.
Though you have no qualms with this,
You enjoy yourself from time to time.
But cannot you imagine a more climatic proposition,
In a less disposable universe?
Where corners are cut,
Shoving dignity & quality out the door
Is where impractical risks are made.
However,
All you ponder now is the blur pushed into the edge of your eye.
Perhaps it is a microorganism rendezvousing with another microorganism.
Though they would have no concept of predetermination.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
So what I drink all my calories
I'm sane and you're not, bruh
It's never enough even to wear
what you're wearing and talk
like you talk, do you even care?
Killing myself keeping things legit in your sphere
Black sheep combine forces to feel
wanted, keeping your company
I feel blocked when you're nodding.
Yes, I'm acting just like you want me,
bruh, I'm coming up short to your haughti
ness, blessed with a sense of self
stopping just short of your level and
what the hell, what I am doing here
fighting for otherness, concerned
with the purity of water of my brothers
and my sisters of the covenant
You talk about faith when it comes
to prey that you're stalking, keep
it strong, yolo, fleek, and a hashtag
To be honest I'm scared that my hometown
will be infested with those the internet
claimed and ingest, swallowed with
speed of light, people spit out as pesticide
turning the verdant green such a ****** brown
Yes you're so on top and classy, lacking
purposely the tenets that turn a body fancy
Cool *** beard bro, girl that's a freak ***
hairdo, up in the midst short sides a pool cue
locked in your hands up inside a ******* dive bar,
midnight drive holding a pipe 'hind your
headlights, Yes you're mixing with the best
making them arrogant, such a lens to view
the struggles they been through, Weird queer
younglings in their late twenties and homeless
at some point, only the noise of the sirens
and blue lit bathrooms, keeper of the needle
rights, and happiness,5-0 lights blasting on naito, picking
on the kids white/brown outside washing
the day away with the kiss of the pabst
taking a nap on the grass on the waterfront
blessed with lives with beards and queers
passing by as they want one.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 3:21 AM UTC
Gay
you ******* ******
FAGET!
blue boy blues
blue boy's eyes
here in my room
no, no,
i'm bisexual, you see
i'm a poet, you see
I'm Bret Easton Ellis
disguised in a fashion identity
twisted lovers between your ragged sheets
rrr-rr
call me, Beverly Hills 90-210-SIX-SIX-SIX
i eat more chicken than any man can meat
but i'm no more mean than you
here
with a sick pack of abs
drinking a can of beer
PABST! BLUE RIBBON!
Cold sirens sing for you
and me
SHOOT! SHOOT! SHOOT!
siren's ****
The protection for my love
come in my eyes and insecurity
no one dances in the ballroom
the bride legs' are opened wide
in my *****
in this dark fantasy
all night
touching my self
behind my mother's bed
******** my mind
there you're lying with me
with a spike in your arm
i'm troubled, you see
i'm messed up, you see
i'll eat your heart out, won't breathe,
won't bleed and scratch and crawl
i'll rip you
LIMB
BY
LIMB
she says: hold me, i'm fallin'
and then i saw your face
and then i saw your smile
dancing
to some Yeezy song on the stereo
there, all alone, put your make up on
and tie off my arm
and turn the T.V. on
and fire up these boys
and give me another blow job
- before i'm on the nod.
*Go ahead and smile, you ****
I've rotten and snorted,
sneezing other men's
***** in your room
- milked you like a cow
- loved you like my mom.
And i'm nothing but an
used ****** Love:
the kind of thing you clean
with a mop and bucket.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
When the hard cider is all gone
and the pabst is all stale
and the ***** makes you gag
and the drug testing doesn't let you smoke ****
what do you do?
You have a ******* good time
with some great people
and you pack bowls for them
and roll joints for them
and hate the frat boys with them.
You laugh at the funny jokes
and duck call at the bad ones.
You smoke too many cigarettes
and give away your only lighter.
You fall asleep with one of them in your arms.
But don't worry, next weekend it will be someone else.
This time it was a tenacious blonde who's taking you to prom.
Next week it might be the lovely red head who wears his heart on his sleave
or it may be the funny Jewish kid who plays beer pong by himself.
Maybe it'll be the girl who shows up when all the ***** is gone
and sits next to you and lets you hold her close.
But never by yourself,
they're all to lovely to let that happen.
A few days from then you'll go on a walk and bring a few cigarettes and a book
but the cigarettes remind you of them and the book reminds you of her
so you leave Leaves of Grass in the grass and smoke the cigarettes
thinking of the Before.
thinking of the Then.
Not worrying about the Now
and forgetting the When.
You sleep like a baby,
in the sense that you wake up every few hours and struggle to fall asleep without your mother's breathing to sing a lullaby.
She's outside,
falling in to old habits,
throwing two years into a bottle and downing it.
She's smoking her last cigarette so she sneaks into your room careful not to wake your seemingly sleeping Self and digs in your backpack until she finds your cigarettes.
In the morning she will magically have those two years back
and she will have forgotten those cigarettes she took from you.
But you'll throw her empty bottles away before your sister can find them and Understand.
And she won't lend you that twenty bucks she said she would because she spent it on two bottles of Jägermeister.
And the girl who lives down the street knows none of this because to her it's not real.
She only knows that your mother has a two year NA chip
and she only knows that you used to Hate yourself.
She knows that you like her
and she thinks she likes you.
And she lets you put your arm around her
and she snaps at Satan with you.
And you love the lovely red head and you hope he reads this
and is happy because he is in one of your ramblings.
just as your heart smiles
when you find yourself in one of his.
however more poetic and sensitive and lovely they are.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
the empties
of the week
hold guard over my room.
they stand
like brave sentinels
and we watch the sun rise together.
bottles, cans, flasks, drams
these are my friends,
the empties
of the week.
sunlight burns
off of tinted brown glass
and i am alone,
except these are my friends,
the empties
of the week.
Pabst (7)
Coors (4)
Magic Hat (12)
Sierra Nevada (6)
Heineken (8)
Jack Daniel's (3)
Tanqueray (2)
Jameson (6)
Crown Royal (2)
Wild Turkey (5)
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 7:11 AM UTC
I have written so much
****** poetry across this city;
left it in bars, under streetlights, and
In the bathrooms where people have ******
all over the toilet seats
and I had to use my poems
to clean it up.
They are on napkins
and receipts;
pieces of toilet paper,
and even a one-liner
on the carcass
of a piece of paper
that once held a straw.
The words get soggy on wet bars
and bloom like black flowers
losing all consistency and coherence.
Sometimes
I write them out of pure impetus.
To get me going,
I need a couple beers and those
Pabst-drinking, past-drunk
drunk girls that get close up to you
and put their lips on your earlobes
like they want to tell you a secret
But all you get is a present
of soft stinging breath.
Sometimes
I write them for some girl I meet,
like the one who came up and sat down
right beside me.
She said her name was
so and so.
I said my name was
so and so,
so we got to talking
And the topic finally reared its
fat, ugly head:
“Are you going to school?”
“Yea I go to State”
“Oh that’s cool, whats your major?”
“Creative writing”
Then she smiles at me
like I’ve got some broccoli
in my teeth,
and she wants to figure out a way to tell me
without breaking
this three-beer-good-buzzing mood,
finally she says:
“write me something”
And I become a dog for her.
In my doggish way
I take my tail
out of my pocket
and tuck it's wiggling self
onto a napkin.
I write
about how meeting someone new,
is like trying to figure out
if what you’re looking at is a skyscraper
or a mountain,
or just a Norfolk freight train
barreling down the tracks
with your name on it’s front grille.
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 8:47 PM UTC
nana gave me cash
for gas--bless her heart--and still
i spent half on Pabst
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 7:16 PM UTC
I can’t say we’re the same but I too have lost large parts of me to greener pastures
Your dark bricks turn to dust and paint the snow a red maroon
“The stories they’d tell”
Says everyone sad to see them crumble but not sad enough to do anything about it
“Someone should do something”
Someone, but not they
Milwaukee I too am a lot like you, if you only knew
How far I slid sickly over the Kinnickinnic oil slicks
Past fallen trees and draining pipes
Until being caught by a shopping cart
Left on the muddy banks by some poor poor impoverished soul
Who also didn’t really care enough to return it to the Pick & Save
From which it was taken
I’ve sure seen better days and I too have come a long way
Like I got on to Fond Du Lac Avenue and kept walking
Until I reached
Well...
Fond Du Lac
Like I ascended Kilbourn Park with a pick-axe
Defeated the yeti on top and shoved your blue flag
Through his heart, cracking it open like a Pabst or Schlitz can
and dropped a quarter in a homeless guy’s jar
And he told me I was just like you
I can too burn bright like the foundries in the valley
Or roar like railcars and rattle the south side
Or be courageous like the captain
Sailing to Muskegon
Over choppy freshwater treachery
I can shutter in peace like your factories when I fall asleep
And never wake back up
I can drive all my loved ones away
Just like you have
For the past five decades
I’m exactly like you
Because I too
Wait for a sunnier day
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC
The baseline throbbed
And the chorus echoed
With liquid confidence
And a substance filled mind
As I approached from behind
I put my right hand on her hip
My left hand clinching my pabst
She turn around and said,
*“I thought you were going grab my ***
I spoke no words, just grinned
She smiled
I hadn’t had this much confidence
in a long while.
She whipped her hair and my heart went wild
“Do you want do dance with me?”
She whispered in my ear
I placed my other hand on her hip
My beer hit the floor
I whispered back
“That and so much more”
*“I want to move
And make time stand still
I want you to whimper at my will
And rise to my roar”*
*“I want to show you how good I am with
My words
And my hands
And my tongue
And my lungs”*
*“I want to show you the world
I want to paint portraits of mountains
Before climbing them
And from mountain tops I want to
Draw the sky
I want our eyes
To gaze at the stars within us”*
*“I want to learn everything about you
As I show you everything I am”*
*“I want to dance for you
As you dance for me”*
We danced all evening
And due to my success on this night
It was the highest I had ever been.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
Tears taste like
Pabst blue ribbon
Sat out overnight
Sixteen ounce pounder
Cigarette **** roughly
Stuffed through that
Small can opening
To sip from
In the morning
Another long night
Spent mostly crying
Wake up thirsty
Long drawn drink
Pulling black bits
Of wet tabbaco
From my teeth
Only your tears
Ever tasted like
Cigarette soaked beer
May 23, 2021
May 23, 2021 at 2:35 AM UTC
that kid phil wouldn't shut up about **** and
acid, downing a can of pabst blue ribbon, the logs
snapped and I let the moths drown him out, because
the stars are so much louder (my silence is so much
louder than it used to be) *have you ever wondered
why moths are such idiots?* he asks. I tell him they're
just looking for the moon and everyone goes quiet
because, what? They wanted to believe that moths
aren't just searching for the light too?
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 10:19 AM UTC
That night we
decided that our streets led nowhere,
so we followed them any place.
Apartments
to grass outside the Molly Brown,
cracking faces, sidewalks, traced our way...
North on 7th,
getting warmer.
Inverted frowns
are getting larger
Now
I'm wondering if these
half-formed
flimsy, brittle life-plans
and
half-drained,
dented, warming pint cans
of Schlitz
clutched inside our fists
suggest that it's worth it
To pin our hopes on approaching
footsteps of Summer?
Or just halt our frozen
progress through the Wintertime
when we reach your front door.
We just kept
decoding all our scrambled rambling
'til we'd set the world on its head.
Keep walking,
keep laughing at our young mistakes,
sober night backdrop to beer soaked breaths.
X'd out eyes
and gravel sidewalks.
Bozeman Autumn.
Watch out, mailboxes
'cuz
We're wondering if these
half-formed
flimsy, crack-filled answers
and
empty,
drained, five dollar pitchers
of Pabst
humming 'neath our caps
will help us draw our maps
and stick a pin in the Summer,
page turned on Winter,
or just melt our thawing
progress to another time
when later days trickle down.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
numbness, my old abusive life partner, trickle down my spine and gush outward like a broken levee.
stay up far past a reasonable bed time to think about a reality where purpose is more evident. work, work, work. learn the circuitry of computer programs that will never solve world hunger. listen to sad songs on the drive home. empathize with roadkill.
float above your body. smell the surroundings and mimic all of the textbooks you've read on active listening. grin and nod while your mind transforms more and more into pile of melted wax. become nauseated by the stench of your own life. let it seep into your bloodstream like a rotten batch of dope.
think about death. think about death during breakfast. think about death when the sun goes down on an uneventful Sunday afternoon. think about death during *** think about death while getting drinks with friends. ponder why this earth decided to play the role of an impolite and overworked host. feel sorry for the sun for having so much responsibility.
cry until the faucets allowing your tear ducts to stop are broken. let your dinner become play-dough. be a gracious host to the parasites in your mind. swim with them like the dolphins. lose grasp of why waking up is so important. swallow whiskey like saliva. promise yourself that you won't drink four tall-boy Pabst Blue Ribbons on a Tuesday night. drink four tall-boy Pabst Blue Ribbons on a Tuesday night.
hold numbness while it cries in your lap and promises that it will change-that things will be different. allow it to feed you lies like someday you'll enjoy the sunrise and someone will realize that you're not too broken to love
rip skin off of limbs. try to make it another day.
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 9:38 PM UTC
I saw you in the night as you drank your coffee.
Sipping down caffeine like you were taking in gasoline
Wishing for that fuel to take you a few hundred miles farther than this.
I’m sorry that your addiction could not take you farther
Across this country of methamphetamine addicts and alcoholics;
I should know,
My nicotine has never gotten me farther than another cigarette
And my lungs can only line themselves with what we pave our roads with;
They say “Thank you, for smoking.”
It feels good sometimes
To know
That even though both my grandfathers have died due to this addiction
That I carry a legacy, a legend,
A map to where my blood has been going
Living through tradition like it was not something forgotten by our siblings,
Parents,
Even our friends.
It’s like we’ve fallen deeper into preservation
Putting no chemicals into our lungs, but plenty into our stomachs-
I wonder how we justify it.
I guess it’s cheap can serve as satisfactory,
But I can still remember being a child and hearing:
“Erik, nothing in this life is free.
Do not be cheap.”
I’m sorry that the maps still show that New York is three thousand miles away from Oregon
I cannot rewrite them and manipulate the ways in which we travel
Take Minnesota and place it next to
Montana
Or Florida
I’m sorry that it seems we are still children
sipping on Coca Cola on the docks of Lake O’Dowd
Or teenagers still smoking **** in Kenwood park
Or like we are still college kids
Not doing our homework
So we may drink Pabst.
I am only twenty years old,
But I can already see how the paths are only highways towards the destinations we wish we could reach-
Yet sometimes cannot.
We are only children,
Wishing to be older, to find
We wish we could still be younger, only to
wish we could live forever,
To wish we could still be mortal
To wish this was not inconsequential
I am only twenty years old,
But I can see that we are already lost.
If you would trust me,
enough,
to lay your hand in mine
I’ll find the best drawn highway
on this barely marked map
And take us to the end.
You can take your coffee.
I just may take my cigarettes.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 2:05 PM UTC
I’ve lead this nation through its greatest
Civil unrest,
Like the last hand left clapping at
Curtain call,
I stand tall, a little too tall, stove pipe
Black hat,
Huzzahs and here here’s, I’ve had
My share,
And my critics would rather load
Their revolver,
Than blow buckshot with their brains
And tongue,
Which is why I’m stuck inside my own mind,
Comatose, near death, and all I can think of is my
Little boy.
White walls, white women, and **** in my
Bed pan,
Through my shattered cranium, I can still see
And think,
Slack jawed and glaze eyed, this isn’t right on
My son’s
21st birthday, who will be there
To buy
His first beer, or cool glass of
*** punch,
Mary Todd abstains from the savage
Fire water,
So Edward, knobby kneed now, please tell
Me who?
To share a malted Schlitz, or fine Pabst
Blue ribbon,
To teach you the proper way a man sips
The foam,
How to crush the julep leaf before crushing
It in,
Your table will be full of well wishers and
Whiskey drinkers,
Your belly will be full of well whiskey and
Sour mash,
Your woman, how beautiful she will be,
Glossy eyed,
Your brothers, yes, your companions will
Be there,
Alas your dear ol’ Dad will not be present for
The speech,
As I have addressed so many
Times before,
But you can tell the story, of fore score and seven
Beers ago,
Your father lay vegetated, weak, tired
Of dying,
With the thoughts of honey hops and
Bitter barley,
The sweet wheat, and your transformation
Into manhood,
You’ll be as lonesome and lost as the
****** Confederacy,
Child, know that your father can not tell
A lie,
That on that day, I will be tapping
A barrel,
In the land beyond the sky, stirring the foam,
Humming happy birthday.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 12:44 AM UTC
that first morning your blinds were making
a hymn on the floor out of the sun.
pull a thread of baldur's hair and
it coils out to an endless etymology
of you. bashful eyes, funny lined teeth
with a quill tucked behind,
censoring in fir green. it seems
asleep as you grow quiet
and by some humming band of unknown
particles in your magnetic field a
full creature just walks on out,
tail and all, weird and pretty as hell.
that first month the sun and i were both
shivering expectantly in a doorway.
how could i have known what it meant
when the proverbial wasp landed on your shoulder?
maybe i did. pulling those memories from their jars
yields only honey and one dead bee.
now, i don't feel even a line differently
from how i did, about to take root
when i woke up to you. now is more
whiskey in the woods than pabst on the beach.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 11:32 PM UTC
Rantings
now I'm hoping not to offend anyone
but this has been a really bad day,
and I'm fixin to climb up the *** of someone
don't really care if you wanna hear what I say
my old dog crapped in the hallway
looked at me and gave me this smile,
she said I'm gonna do this all day
leaving you pile upon pile
the mechanic said my vehicle was broken
to fix it will cost you more than its worth,
he smiled so I thought I might smoke him
pound his *** down to the earth
my girlfriend said I was crazy
I wanted more than she had,
from that point my mind went kinda hazy
a 12 pack of Pabst and I'm mad
Now I'm trying to explain my bad humor
understand why I talk like a fool,
feels like I have a brain tumor
crap, I almost fell off this stool
tomorrow I'll have a need for a head shrink
I probably won't remember a thing,
but right now give me more hard ***** to drink
some for you too cause I'm gonna sing
well this is my work of wild whining
I need me someone to blame,
I've been kicked to the curb to drunk for dinning,
I was a good guy, I'll stay the same.
Gomer LePoet...
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 4:12 AM UTC
Night's young. Sip on the pabst.
Smear the make up on your eyes.
Sickles mimic the cynical guest who won't roll the dice.
Sections of their throats, swollen from choking on opinion.
Go unwind,....
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC