Monday, March 11, 2013


one last can of beer
it's 1pm on the oval
marker slouch traffic
barricade barrage of
cannon fodder--I'll finish it
up right quick boy--my
material fixation, my
preoccupation on completing
no work--on drowning in
my obscure reality

it's a day of getting warmer
watching the sun dry out
the molten core of the hearts
beating 12 storeys down there--

a toast and all that
and fuck'em but
my spit hits the balcony
and I give up
decide to lay down

break my pencil with
one easy tilt toward the floor.

1 comment:

  1. The breaking pencil seemed like giving up, after the bleakness of the first half.