mosquito bites,
porch lights,
bending taps for late night fights,
hungry for something,
like a friend once said,
lay awake all night in my broken bed,
empty office buildings,
cracks in the wall,
I wonder how far down I might fall,
can't grasp the essence,
only feel the resistance,
can't feel the love,
only feel the distance,
a house in the country,
a house in the city,
fat wallets, trophy titty,
getting old, feelin' shitty,
don't know what it means,
a diamond ring or just a block of cheese,
old newspapers and a set of keys,
midnight rainstorm,
and a pain in my knees,
dark clouds and a full moon,
homeless drunk below,
shadow boxing the breeze.
4 comments:
Well, you nailed it. 'Getting old, feeling shitty' at least.
Fat wallet. Fuck that. Can't even afford any decent top-shelf pornography. Have to browse in the bargain bin, settling for '50 Plus' or 'Grannies and Trannies'.
And some of the kids at the school are calling me 'Trophy Titty'. Gotta start getting to the gym more often.
Enjoy the posts. See you in a few days. Keep on keepin' on.
Tight - like an Robert Frost if he owned a gun in a mixed ethnic neighbourhood. Nice.
Rat-tat-tat. Another rapid fire poem from the existential master of verse, the chronicler of our lives so imperiled in spirit. Thank God for Clint. Thank God for angst as part of the human condition. For without it, there'd be no Dox. No posts of his to take pleasure in.
This is good, HP. Your words float like butterflies but there is no sting. GR.
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