I just want to sleep in,
better yet,
I’d rather be drinking.

Recording my far too sober thoughts on scraps of paper,
then burning them in an ashtray.


Those pricks just turned my favorite bar into a bohemian artist’s freak show.
A hole filled with musical never-will-be’s,
amateur philosophers,
and the hippest wankers in town.

Same décor,
same bartenders,
only now they’re serving beer with slices of fruit crammed into the bottles and espresso martinis.

It’s like watching a dead dog decay in front of your very eyes.

Suited up ass kissers,
their cologne smells expensive,
not like “working man’s” aftershave.

The women are cunts,
admiring themselves in the mirrored walls that once reflected the worn faces of the hard drinking escapees of the factory.

They’ve taken over the place,
now it’s theirs.



1 Comment

Filed under outlaw poetry, poetry

One response to “Hole

  1. I know this feeling.
    RIP The Century Tavern, George Street, Sydney.

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