we’re not new yorkers
because there are none
on the islands of the city
left out to dry
flocks of us, having read walt,
thinking there’s more than
black coats and tough guy movies
bad rock stars with
loud nothings
hairy brains
and worn out cocks
adam and ryan
whine from the village
about the thorns on their rose parade
fleeing some time later to the red dirt
beginning again, in a most unfashionable shirt
because there are none
because when the drink runs our engines
we wish we had a firepit
we wish we had
we wish we had ortherockies or the orthedriveon52
wider lanes and tiny magic nighttime cities
the boredom of
back rooms you can get into and
people you hear and smell and know
the sort of good company
that’s capped with snow
and drops the petals of open spaces on the ones we love
capped with chic cigarettes
and the right to emphysema,
cursing badass whimpers
through pursed lips,
about to die with a black car
and a black suit
and black shoes
because we don’t wear shoes
and because there are none
the beautiful, uncut hair of graves
than we might suppose
2 comments:
the average blog has one faithful reader.
-faithfully yours
I super loved that. Puttin' you on my fancy blogroll thinger.
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