What’s a poem, when a picture can speak without a single letter. What’s a writer, then, but only a sort-of artist. A phony. A fake. A lazy fucking hack. I’m ok with that. I’ve been called worse.
Holy shit, what did I do? I think, as I wipe the drool from my face. Sitting up and rubbing my head, I try to remember how exactly I got myself to bed, but I can’t figure it out. I can’t recall much of anything from last night besides falling when I first got toContinue reading “Every Morning”
Lou, you wicked drunk, you. You’re a degenerate with Smoke breath and a shitty Way with words, too. You’re not a poet, Lou, You’re a poser with a pen, Just a bum with a Twisted head, and Don’t worry, no one will Ever remember a thing That you said.