20 October 2009


Don't try

He died.

we're left with a flood
of flotsam that drools
ink into keys and they
like i are nothing on him
we copy we ignore we spit
i hate us but more i hate you
i'm not afraid to drink this last
bottle and write to release that
last ounce instead of jacking off
into a frayed, old sock; an odd sock.
but you cover up our lack of anything
by blinking aimlessly at the clock and
bowling for the big time, take time.

Don't try
you died
and with you
we died

No comments:

Post a Comment