Sitting silent, searching for some
On The Road
Stale coffee and cheap tobacco smoke
finds me a steel sentimentality
knife and sword and sad imitation
spout brackish founts of
theory and gossip
scraping the sad tar-black fields
for sparks of extremity
Cool, liquid stares and
dry, smog-lined exhalations
laughing with convincing neck-spasm convulsions.
Sitting among the stained ceramic of a million cups of the
dark-brewed drug of the midnight kingdom,
an exquisite crystalline creation,
having tasted the sweet life-liquor of
of all of the wondrous nature and burning filth
of the romantic ancient pulse
calls to the lips of the high-minded soothsayer.
A cup of coffee doesn't sound half-bad at present.
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