Culture of the Underground

poetry

Defeated Pavement

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

poetry

Why do the hills climb as they do?

poetry

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

poetry

Oh, lurid San Francisco, harsh in your corners and abandoned doorways

poetry

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

poetry

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

poetry

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

The plumbing in this building is much like me, each pipe and tube has a purpose, always slightly malfunctioning

poetry

Indigo’s eyes, they shine, but earlier, I was told that mine were dark — asked, even, did you sleep well last night darlin?

poetry

And it’s time to move on, time to let time move me, to fall back into it, gracefully