"stools" poems
the bones were hard to give up,
they pushed out like daisies
caressed under the hounding
heart of a copper sun.
unbridled and undried they bore
zealous arrogance of themselves,
petals dripping ****** convictions
and vibrating like awful angels.
under cruel devices they tried to
soften my bones and mold thick skull
constructed of lackluster candles
on their last flame.
days passed like doctors and white nurses
examining old wires that pray tell
the routines, the stools, the teeth.
i am their Jesus, their Lazarus.
my hearse, my sheep keeper,
my pretty things,
i become the acrobat at the
finale, the last supper,
supplementing at the **** of my
recovery. i lay my skin down for all
of you to see: here is my breast!
my toad belly! my glass feet!
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC
beyond Montana’s yellow lines
there is a field
~a field of painted soles
and laces rubber tread
~a field of ****** curls
and fallen headlights
where kaleidoscope lenses
look onto twisted frames like origami halos
where teddy bears hug stop signs like pickets
fringed in anger
runaway childhoods sleep cautionary tales
beyond Montana’s blushing acne
there are red cup melodies
blasting from blacked out tints
weaving blues notes through Rock & Rap
distant cries are drowned by Bass
or maybe Bud (light)
a haze of teenage eyes
they might as well be ghost riders
whip game copped from GTA
these pubescents are a Vice to their City
blooming sidewalk sloths
like flowerbeds
beyond Montana
is a country of bar stools
where bar tenders play therapists
and therapists play coroners
precedents are shots of whiskey - taken to the head
and reflected in flooded eyes
beyond Montana
is a country of MADD mothers and SADD students
beyond Montana
is a country of unexpecting pedestrians
beyond Montana
is a field
~a field of wing-clipped snow angels
That field is Mariah's home now
and she challenges you to change
yourself
your friends
your country
she challenges you to
STOP DRUNK DRIVING
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC
Flipping threw my old yearbook
I see girls who were once gorgeous
tooken my the devils hand
pregnant and life beaten now
horrendous
I remember seeing them
with there cheerleading outfits on
As I sat in a corner by myself
I here them laughing and chatting
about going to tonys house after school
I remember tony strong handsome captain of the highschool world
I saw him two weeks ago
With his hands covering his face
And a shot next to him
3 empty beers infront
He really let himself go I remember thinking
fat and forgotten about
still clinging to that highschool dream
I remember him saying I was a loser as he flipped my lunch tray
and humiliated me by reading my little notebook of writes
I remember saying to him
one day ill have the last laugh
one day ill see you down and out
and you'll ask me for a handout
going back to the bar I sit down
A couple stools down to see if he recognised me
He finished his 3 beers as I finished my long island ice tee
he said to the bar tender I gotta ***
be right back
I followed him to the restroom
and we were a ****** apart
I looked over and seen his small patheic *****
as I looked at my *****
I laughed
and I laughed
and I laughed
looked over at tony
and said see sir
I did get the last laugh
and I left
I hope he knows me now
I hope he knows me now
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
Monet was painting up my vision
while the droves were driven out.
We stepped out to the derision
of a tenor waterspout.
The town outside is dancing
in the ruddy neon hues
and I’m ****** whilst Amsterdam-ing
by the slam-dunk cognac blues.
And a cap was shaking coppers
in an out cove by the way,
where instruments and owners
had begun to play.
The bar stools are all swaying
whilst the festival ensues,
and I’m ****** whilst Amsterdam-ing
by the slam-dunk cognac blues.
With the rhythm of the rimjhim
and the stamping our feet
we sing our drunken-whim hymn
whilst we stagger down the street.
And we had sunken five; still sinking
Im strung out, slammed, and stinking
Four sheets to the wind and freaking
about what I had to lose.
so that’s when I got to thinking
had an inkling to the linking
between my errant drinking
and the slam-dunk cognac blues…
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
At the end of the pier you could look out to sea
Listening to the swell flap on the rusty cast iron
Of geometrical supports.
Barnacles clung, sealed like gold nuggets
And in the distance the slow **** of a tanker.
The wind would whisk around the terminal
Throwing hair to the sky
Floating chandelier skirts tipped
Revealing best underwear.
And the clock sang its time to the birds.
Over both sides were fishing rod rows
Their owners sitting on canvas stools
Above seagulls nibbled the air for food scraps
And beneath strong swimmers bobbed
Watching children skim pebbles in the waves.
Love Mary xxxx
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
The patient has had no nausea,
vomiting or back pain. No chills,
fatigue, fever, decreased vision
or double vision. No ear drainage
or hearing loss, epistaxis or
runny nose. No sore throat, calf
pain, chest pain, cough or difficulty
breathing. No pedal edema,
palpitations, black stools, ******
stools or constipation. No diarrhea,
urinary frequency, laceration, skin
rash or depression. No dizziness,
headache, head injury, weakness
or enlarged lymph nodes. All
systems negative
and yet
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
waste matter discharged from the mother's bowels; feces,
excreta, stools, droppings; waste matter,
ordure, dung; **** poo, dirt, turds, ****
"cleaning up ferret excrement":
mid 16th century: from French excrément
or Latin excrementum, from excernere ‘to sift out’ feces;
act of defecating;
a contemptible or worthless person;
something worthless; garbage; nonsense;
"this book is **** unpleasant experiences
or treatment; "I went through a lot of **** last year"
things or stuff, especially personal belongings;
"he left all his **** in my apartment"
events or circumstances;
_"some crazy **** went down last night"_
any psychoactive drug, especially marijuana [the good ****
good **** verb: **** 3rd person present: *****
past tense: ******* past participle: *******
past tense: **** past participle: **** past tense: shat;
past participle: shat; gerund or present participle: ********
expel feces from the body,
soiling one's clothes as a result;
expelling feces accidentally; very frightened.
tease or try to deceive someone or thing.
"I **** you not" exclamation
exclamation: ****
[exclamation of disgust, anger, or annoyance]
Old English scitte ‘diarrhea,’ of Germanic origin;
related to Dutch schijten, German scheissen [verb];
_The term was originally neutral and used without ****** connotation_;
*********** from Greek κόπρος,
kópros—excrement & φιλία, philía—
liking, fondness, also called scatophilia
or **** [Greek: σκατά, skatá-feces],
is the paraphilia involving
****** arousal & pleasure
from specific feces;
meanly, his mother said, _u can drink my ***
but don't eat my **** then she ****
& *** & the boy drank but when
he put the warm **** to his mouth,
she slapped it out of his hand &
yelled, I told u not to eat my ****
& the boy began to cry & feeling
bad his mother turned to let him lick
the bowl & rim the moist wet hole between
her pudgy cheeks & then gave him more
of her tangy *** to drink like lemonade
& chocolate chips, sometimes it was
more like sweet sherbet; but she never
hit him again & he's been eating her ****
ever since; now, his wife lets him drink
her *** & he eats from the baby's *****
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
Sitting in a bar.
A beer with perspiration.
Its raining outside.
Hear the shuffleboard shuffle.
Intoxicated poetics.
Sober state of mind.
Stools shrouded in mystery.
Double doors leading in.
Bartender’s creations. (chemical concoctions)
Saloon of slumlords and hipsters
Open mic night.
Hippie Howls.
Don’t worry we got this under control.
Malboro reds, cowboy killers.
Don’t spend you life wishing,
Spend it living.
Better yet, spend it drinking.
Liquid courage. (men becoming beasts)
Awkward rages.
The best is coming.
Shielding secret shame in this scene.
Hidden in a pint of pilsner.
Free thinkers in a haze of hops.
Lets get drunk.
Make shift graveyards on the walls.
Honoring the dead.
Rest in peace.
Nothing less, nothing more.
Old Heidelberg.
Before my time.
The stalls scrawled with graffiti.
For a good time call.
Scratched onto the stall.
“Spread love like butter on a hot bun”
Sherlock and Watson.
Bromance.
This is a bar of friends.
What is this bar?
Drunk off this atmosphere.
Window panes with neon signs.
Disillusioned.
Concealed.
Unfinished.
The moves fast and goes right by.
Springing forward without a shadow of a doubt.
Members of the Great Unwashed.
The signs of our time.
I think we’re going to split.
Can I get another drink?
One for the road.
Don’t cut me off quite yet.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
Zombies are waddling toward their door.
Witches are cackling, black cats are scratching,
And the ghouls want brains and more.
But Brig and Ophelia aren’t scared yet,
They’re waiting inside,
Gobbling strange snacks while they hide.
It’s bugs they like to chew and gnaw;
And they love to eat their spiders raw,
Not fried with onions, like Granda;
Or served with broccoli, like Nana.
Not boiled with worms and creepy crawlers.
Ciaran eats those,
Not these crazed daughters.
Ophelia and Brig
Eat them raw,
Alive, not dead,
With wiggly legs and sharp jaws;
And wrapped up with mosquito heads
In white sticky spider webs.
They eat Black Widows soaked in goblin blood
And wicked witch’s poo;
Made from bats and rats and unschooled fools,
That witches eat to soften stools.
They eat fat spiders
Floating in soup,
That slide and wiggle
Down their throat.
They eat them with their mouldy cheese,
Melted over wasps and bees.
The girls fork down spider stew,
They love the taste “Tres beaucoup.”
The gravy’s made from a mummy’s spit,
And sweat that drips from a ghoul’s armpit.
They like their spiders spread on bread,
A feast to feed the risen dead.
When their snack is finally done,
They’ll pick their teeth and scrape their tongues
For Daddy Long Legs they didn’t eat.
The long legs caught between their teeth.
They'll use those legs to weave a wreath,
To trick flies and bugs and lonely spiders
Into their hungry House of Horrors.
Oct 30, 2023
Oct 30, 2023 at 11:06 AM UTC
You round up because what difference is a quarter of a inch
Heels, depending on the size, will make you the average height
Leggings and sweats will bunch at your ankles
Shirts become dresses, but only for you
Dress hems hit the floor, but only for you
**** skirts become **** dresses
Having to hem every single pair of jeans
Sleeves. Sleeves are far too long
"Petite" clothing doesn't fit either
Step stools are your best friend
Jumping for something that's just out of reach works too
Constantly being mistaken for a 16 year old
(Even if you are turning 20 this year)
Being used as an armrest by someone who thinks they're funny
Stuck in the front for every group photo
There's that awkward height difference between you and everyone
Standing on tiptoes and having the guy lean down for a kiss
You hate sports that require tall people, like volleyball and basketball
And yet, you wouldn't change your height for the world
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 6:51 PM UTC
Somewhere is a coward still in the closet ,
or laying next to you in the bed.
The biggest cowards are disguised in uniform
Powerful cowards on pedal stools,hidden in congress.
Most cowards often promise to be lovers
but will run when you sing their name
cowards holding hands
rubbing their" happiness" in your face
cowards who were supposed to be parents
cowards who promised to be friends
careless cowards who wanted commitment
but never saw it through till the end
cowards buying flowers
cowards falling in love
there are cowards 6 feet under
yet some cowards make it above
I see a coward in the mirror
There is a coward in all of us
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 3:33 PM UTC
He was sitting at the bar,
not a nice bar at that,
when she walked in
uplifted by the draft
as she let the heavy door
close behind her
draped in a black dress
with black hair
like a shroud
and pale skin
like bones
she sat two stools down from him
and ordered an old fashioned
and necked it down
before ordering another
and another
and another
losing none of her poise
and no sign of flushed cheeks
she made eye contact with him
and for the first time in his life
he knew fear
and he knew he wanted to be scared
He ordered two old fashioned's
and slid a stool over
and told her his name
holding out his hand hopefully
she took it
with dainty fingers
her skin was colder than the creek
that he had been dared to swim in
during the winters of his childhood
"I think we've met before" she said
a voice like a funeral dirge
"so you must come here a lot" he replied
"you could say that,
or you could come back to my place"
he was more than happy to oblige
together they trudged off into the inky night
and he was never seen again,
and the next night
she was back at that bar
drinking old fashioned's
and waiting to be approached
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
Neon Stella Artois lights and sly hellos
It commenced as we were flew spinning
Ticket stubs and ink -stains
Oh, as our love flirted we both were seeking
Brooklyn Subway stops and ***** clothes
We perched by the equator but only when beginning
Backwards flasks and *******
Then winter solstice was challenged by spring’s springing
Strands of soft pearls and wishing wells
We shivered the anxious touch of a faux July summer’s evening
Empty bar stools and firelight
It was still bitterly February but with the mockery of songbirds floating
Two Thirty Seven A.M. and sea shells
How can the world deceive us in this fashion: fools, we accept ever-knowing
Buttered bread and hindsight
Dawn will crash with frostbite and these daisies will pay the price of their beauty’s sinning
Wine before noon and payphone bills
Wind will eviscerate this moment for once you have touched the sun the ice is more than suffocating
Dry heaving and ribbons
We were only waiting then at the heart of a train station for the stretches of shadows to lengthen
First drags of cigarettes and blue diet pills
The glitter within the dew drops stolen from our tired eyes when our first summer was stolen
Cheap motels and kitchens
We could barely exchange syllables, our melodies quarreling, our blood had thinned
Calendar pages and black lace *******
The euthanasia of the spring would have hung us too if we had breathed it in
The Last calls and lollipops
One can repose more gently in the absence of color than in the theft of sin
Bitten manicured hands and autumn leaves
We used to sleep in a room with wonders, windows, and blankets within
Midnight whispers and rooftops
It was the only place that could soften the swords in all this ruin
****** wrappers and painting supplies
Today is cruel, it cannot be summer if the world doesn’t spin
Happy hour cocktails and goodbyes
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
He heard a last echoed clink of liquor-laden ice-cubes,
Stuck between two stools that screamed for company,
I gazed across his vacant stare to the barman –the silent DJ,
Professionally ignorant as I gestured my hoarse thirst,
I waited a little minute, another minute an’ just one more,
Enter our businessman, full-schedule, long-hauled to drink,
With a rib-eye steak of a face an’ breath surely barbecued,
Two satisfied cheeks, pink-puffed with brows fit for burial,
Teeth ground with tension but brighter than the lighting
A fungal-lung nose perched upon a smile that I could smell,
He plumbed himself wet-shave close to my stiffened neck,
“..Hana Drink..?” (Silence) best to follow the DJ’s example,
(Bullish huffs) (Lips licked) “.. Ya’ll wantin’ a drink, Mister?..”
Flustered by the company, I replied “..Non, Je think eh Je chi..”
A retort of sorts, faux languages not my degree, “..Leaba..Bed!”
Spluttered just at the end – an insulting first impression,
He seemed nervously joyous, loosened from being himself,
Yet his trouser belt buckled, pulled tight to conversation level,
An’ Redwood-trunk hands, alive with the latest deal struck,
“..Bedtime for us..” he bare-bawled, splitting my weary eyes,
His numbed arm clumsily flung around me, “..bedtime for us!..”,
DJ unmuted, the music paused, I mouthed softly “..just the bill..”
(Silence)
“..Who’s Bill?.. a friend?…Is he cute?.. So this drink?” I panic still.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
Wobbling three legged tables
where the bearded bald men are
sitting upon the legs of standing chairs
while telling local tales heard abroad
recalled from memories long forgot
Like stories from a ******** genius's journal
read in public by the town's blind doctor
clearly translated by a girl who was mute
to a man listening with old deaf ears
Or the one of the parched fisherman drowning
who was seen from a distance by a nearsighted man
that sent his lame messenger running to get help
and was reeled in by the fish he had caught on his line.
But none were as simply complicated
as the one of the bearded bald men
whose sitting stools stood tall as they sat
and whose three legged table wobbled.
May 31, 2010
May 31, 2010 at 7:00 PM UTC
New mildew mania, oh man-of-war
Live by the letter, and **** for the car
The dreamers, constrained by the fog they can’t see
I uttered this song in Breakaway Alley
A wandering blonde in the restless air
Their kids, half-afraid that they’re halfway to nowhere
Think what you may, they are not in a trance
Wield what they say and you’ll find that you dance
Upon every row, lies a flag waving by
Apartment gravestones kissing up to the sky
Now, must we try so hard for fake jubilee?
The happy ones live in Breakaway Alley
In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley is on the run
All the country crows, they’ve committed a crime
Each of their wings, flapping mad out of time
To fly with such freedom yet stay so cloudbound
Cacophonous sounds fighting for our own ground
The buds only look up for leviathans
To take them to the realm they misunderstand
To pity the fool that does not try to flee
We sit on our stools in Breakaway Alley
In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley has emptied the guns
The youth do not stir at the visage of hell
There is no romance in the streets’ calling bells
And while we may treat such a threat to be shown
The dagger of a mind is dull while unknown
The ravaged pretender spoke of the Romans
His gauntlets of gold, earned from fate’s happenstance
To escape his blood, he would face down the sea
The velvet hands shook in Breakaway Alley
In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley is due to be shunned
The eye of childhood feared the forgotten paint
They lay, unencumbered, on secular saints
The falsified folly in full leopard print
The troops in their trollies with pockets of lint
The radio is silent in time’s aging vice
We hear and don’t listen, bats spliced with mice
But maybe, you will see this sweet harmony
Remember the words of Breakaway Alley
In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley has finally gone
When the baby screams for the first time, aged five
Will it lament the loss of its life?
When the kids rear for a solution wherever you go
How much will it take to say “God, I’ll never know”?
Remember the words of Breakaway Alley
It’s not all you see, it’s not simply me
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 8:31 PM UTC
I felt it first –
the day we wore waterproof boots in Amsterdam in August,
an unexpected storm did little to disturb us
I began to notice it then
the secret in this town that everyone, except me, knew about
Something that was hushed and passed around
under the blanket of moon
hidden away in a fiercely dark room of the Red Light
beneath maroon velvet curtains and leather-topped stools
or nestled beneath a bridge on the black canal past midnight.
I saw water dotted with blurred droplets, dark blue
the reflection of milky streetlights.
I pull the curtains in the mezzanine and the show begins
on the street below. I look out.
A curve of the lips
a gentle folding of the arms
a hand brushing against another
A secret never told
A city more alive than awake.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC
If any of the following side effects occur while taking prednisone, check with your doctor immediately:
More common
Aggression
agitation
anxiety
blurred vision
decrease in the amount of *****
dizziness
fast, slow, pounding, or irregular heartbeat or pulse
headache
irritability
mental depression
mood changes
nervousness
noisy, rattling breathing
numbness or tingling in the arms or legs
pounding in the ears
shortness of breath
swelling of the fingers, hands, feet, or lower legs
trouble thinking, speaking, or walking
troubled breathing at rest
weight gain
Incidence not known
Abdominal or stomach cramping or burning (severe)
abdominal or stomach pain
backache
****** black, or tarry stools
cough or hoarseness
darkening of skin
decrease in height
decreased vision
diarrhea
dry mouth
eye pain
eye tearing
****** hair growth in females
fainting
fever or chills
flushed, dry skin
fractures
fruit-like breath odor
full or round face, neck, or trunk
heartburn or indigestion (severe and continuous)
increased hunger
increased thirst
increased urination
loss of appetite
loss of ****** desire or ability
lower back or side pain
menstrual irregularities
muscle pain or tenderness
muscle wasting or weakness
nausea
pain in back, ribs, arms, or legs
painful or difficult urination
skin rash
sleeplessness
sweating
trouble healing
trouble sleeping
unexplained weight loss
unusual tiredness or weakness
vision changes
vomiting
vomiting of material that looks like coffee grounds
Some prednisone side effects may not need any medical attention. As your body gets used to the medicine these side effects may disappear. Your health care professional may be able to help you prevent or reduce these side effects, but do check with them if any of the following side effects continue, or if you are concerned about them:
More common
Increased appetite
Incidence not known
Abnormal fat deposits on the face, neck, and trunk
acne
dry scalp
lightening of normal skin color
red face
reddish purple lines on the arms, face, legs, trunk, or groin
swelling of the stomach area
thinning of the scalp hair
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
~~
You are always beneath the sky
though you can think above all the heights
even behind the origin
and following just after
A bit ahead
just before the end of the evening
a distinct dark and a shadow
caught between two stools
I'm moving between the line,
blessing in disguise
stepping forward,
taking the best of both worlds
Shadows have a sound of mist
within the shadows
and the dark has a light
at the bottom on the line of dark
but I caught between two stools
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
We aren't keepers anymore.
They've stopped taking us home to meet their mothers.
They mask our names with cute little lies in their cell phones.
They take us out, but only after dark,
when we disappear into the walls
and camouflage into the bar stools.
With every drink, our eyes dance darker,
our lashes grow longer,
our lips flush redder,
our hair flies wilder,
our hips swing looser,
our nails dig deeper.
We leave the Madonnas alone in their wicker beds,
fading smaller into the back of their minds,
as we slowly take over.
With our foreheads kissing theirs
and their lips brushing ours,
for the night, the Madonnas are the ones that meant nothing to me, baby.
For the night, they're ours forever.
For the night, they will never let us go.
We almost forget that in the morning,
we aren't keepers anymore.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 2:57 AM UTC
What's your mirror think?
Does it watch you disappear?
Does it watch you blink?
Safe beverages
8 decades to puppeteer
Love your blemishes
Dating makes us sad
Auto-ionize our fear
Acting ironclad
Romance; the great farce
We just wanna climb up here
To indulge the hearts
Earth grips my poor eyes
Her key to the stratosphere
Locked up compromise
Dying for mudpools
Mountaineers might make things clear
Hope ya like blood-stools.
Send me a cartoon
Send a silver chandelier
Send me poems soon
Dec 12, 2017
Dec 12, 2017 at 4:30 AM UTC
My mom used to grind tomatoes every October
for canning with this metal monster that kept it's mouth
clenched on the edge of our kitchen table
for weeks at a time. I used to climb up the stools
just to barely crank the tail around and around,
watching the vegetable guts spill into a cauldron.
She would give me a mini Krackle bar
if I could count all of the jars to at least ten,
their gold rims like little crowns that she would carefully
twist over their heads, the reflection from the setting sun
bouncing off my Kindergarten cheeks. My dad,
pretending to be a cartoon character behind her back
as I covered my mouth in secret laughter. I can't prove it,
but I bet she smiled as she rolled her eyes, pretending
not to be totally in love with a forty year old man
who's heart was as young as his daughter. Now,
she can't even stir Campbell's soup without crying.
The sound of the crank is only like the sound of the car
as they tore apart it's skeleton just to find my dad's baseball cap
stuck in the glass of the windshield. So instead,
now ten years later, I tuck pictures in places
I know she won't look, say prayers when she's gone to sleep,
and pull the curtain over the jars
of the homemade spaghetti sauce in the cellar.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
The room was clouded with wisps of smoke, the smell of cheep tobacco mixing with the foul fetter of Budweiser's.
Heavy boots crowded the compact living room, some pacing on the floor, others resting on stools, and one certain pair standing on the couch. As the evening waned, their owners smoked and drank and composed.
The fan droned on above the huddle of men, attempting to counter-act the thick, humid air and suffocating clouds of smoke.
Likewise, the window hung open, a slight breeze entering in, attempting to remind the men that outside there was spring. However, not even the sweet smell of growing grass and greening pine trees could awaken the thinking mass of musicians.
Under the soft whirring of the fan hummed a gentle strum of acoustic guitars, two were in sync, one was free to do what he pleased.
At first the song was melancholy, an almost sickening minor protruding through the chords.
However, the two guitars which played this mournful tune were soon over-ruled by the lone guitar, this guitar introducing an almost ****** tune, sweet with lively colors, walks in the park; moody with aromatic evenings spent in wild-flower fields and peaceful nights sitting by the river, fishing and playing Texas Hold'em for pennies.
This strum of chords soon awakened the other musicians and as their ears perked up to the sound their eyes fell upon the man, the man with the boots that stood on the couch.
As the groups' gaze circled onto the man, he finished with a lulling C sharp minor and pulled the smoldering cigarette from his mouth, cocking his head towards the men and smirking ever so slightly as he proclaimed in his proud, deep, southern accent, an eyebrow raising to mark their heedfulness, "And there, gentlemen, is true music."
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC