Culture of the Underground

They say it’s foggy here, but Carl seems to be dissipating

Themes in poetry make patterns on my skin

Black horses pull at me while deluded horses talk about heroin addiction

Why do the hills climb as they do?

My dearest Evelyn, your pale, freckled skin,
I smell the scent of lilac on it again

Much to my own distaste, I’m sitting in a bar alone on St. Patrick’s Day, drinking a fucking Guinness.

I look down at my hands sometimes and I don’t see mine,
I see my mother’s

I’d make it with bare feet on wooden floors and retroactively, read the fucking recipe so that it doesn’t burn