22.5.2013

These are the dark days
that men succumb to either
God or hard liquor

Elevated

As sweet as life is,
so will be death.

We will not fall
into the cold earth,
but instead,
be elevated
into the Sun.

Grace

In the midst of the terror,
a hard and savage;
Melancholy.

Beneath this,
Paranoia.

This strange new age
of lyrical ballads
beyond authorship;
Nonsensical.

This is a lustful land
where all things perish;

Grace,
Beauty,
Kindness.

Legacy

The humid secret of August
you carry in your name.

Sins,
let loose in the very
cradle in which
I slept as a child.

Ever-present,
God like,
yet shameful.

Fatty Rib

She plucked from me,
a fatty rib.
Smeared her lips with grease,
and liked the bone as if it were a lollipop.

Bitter

Blood stained snow,
resembling cruel bedsheets,
bitter,
in the winter wind.

A hand written sign,
in a window.

Beer and liquor,
cash only,
no cards,
no names.

I need the warmth,
of knowing death
is not as cold as life.

F.Scott Fitzgerald

It’s been giving me
long term
writers’ block.

Maybe the question
really is,
If nobody drank
would we have more
or less
“great writers”?

Maybe the best writers
were those
who drank so much
it was impossible for them to ever become house hold names.

Where’s fucking F. Scott
when I need some advice?