coffee and whiskey
every morning he wakes up,brews some coffee and adds whiskey:
then drinks - this is a ritual.
he smokes on his porch,
in a seedy hotel called broken dreams,
while drinking something toxic
[add some to the fire]
there's also this writer,
in another room, but he's anti-social;
i don't know him.
but i think, if i did, he would be me.
he keeps hiding in all this shit called prose,
"in new hampshire people don't like gays"
he smokes too: while he writes
let's make a barricade with coffee cups
and cigarette butts; maybe then,
the world will stop spinning
[(in our sober and realistic haze)]
Poetry by Zachary P. B.
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Written on 2006-11-06 at 00:18
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