Frosty da snowman
Bluelighter
i'm way to fucked up to explain this
i'll dry to doit when sober\
i give u a drunken rambi\\
walking in the full moon
the light
the midnight sun
the marble you just can’t seem to get to
too drunk
too real
and reflecting
there’s nothing worse then a drunk poet
strutting, stumbling, caressing the streets
spouting his foul moment into the air
wishing for a microphone a pencil or a keyboard
this was me
a 12:30 walk home or maybe it was after one
the moon nigh and the thoughts slow, complex and unending
fuck the walking sleep
falling to new scenes that midnight cannot touch
the sea dark and infinite as earth calls can get
draining to that summer wave voice
the fields enter the fallow season
dreams and thoughts like concrete, fractal, and repeating down that dark spiral
the lovely blue of a silent sideways scream
the dark closing and obscene thoughts on abortion
has there ever been a better argument for pro-choice then the precious forgotten lives of addicts and whores
and other stuttered half moments shouted at a street post audience
near tears from the pain of a spinning world, screaming inner voices, a rolling gut, and a little bit of truth
a plateau of silence, and smiles lifts from the inner muck
I just had an orgasm cause I’m half way home
it’s in that moment of safe drunken happiness
where for just for moment you a little kid showing mommy “look here I can tie my shoes”
it when the worlds stopped spinning and you can stand up straight when the streetlamps, traffic signals and porch lights don’t hurt anymore
when your beginning to think I’m going to get through this psychologically intact
you feel a hand reach around pull your hair back, your looking in your own grinning eyes, Id has come to say hello.
seven blocks left an now you’ve got a Me hard
walking, listing searching the sidewalk trying to keep yourself in check
your passion for the moment is decided
rest this evil bastard to dreams
rest this these thoughts
please god let us get home before the voices take control
rolling through suicide hills and each step a nightmare
angry weird faces waiting in each alley, vocal thoughts of mother in each crack, and each street is screaming father hood need, I contemplate the picketers.
sign post soldiers, walking in feel good circles, walking to beat dead horses
walking to get one step closer to that sixth block
walking to bed, home, and conduit
walking to feed the need
walking to drift
walking cause it’s the only thing to do at 2:am’s doorstep and you’re to drunk to ring the bell
feeling that fifth block, the local taco shop next door cutch in site, forgetting the already dependent nature of the weekend
the fourth block is all insane fucked up calls form whispering voices
fucked up memories from days past
fucked up dreams to come
third block whispers lovers lament’s
cold sidewalk shoulder
street sign “no parking here between the hours of” smirk
new saloon feel
Dracula’s hunting ground
second block is rain
coming down black and aftershock
emotional fallout coating cars, your nearly home (I) the clowns to far behind and the elephants seem to be strolling other streets
your block keys prematurely in hand.
motherhood guilt is about to lay a check on your ass
=apologies to god, mother, simi-kinown father seem to make it right
till the dark come to remind you of the contract you’re my bitch hood
block one the home stretch of please don’t bust me MR. Officer I swear she was 18
the keys WAITING
THE PEN DRIPPING
AND THE PENCIL BEGGING TO BE BROKEN
THE MIDGNIGHT LIFE
THE DRUNCKEN WALK
THE TYPICAL SOCAL BUDDHA RESPONSE
*edit and explanation. I changed one word an made a few spelling corrections. I wrote this in three parts. The first say third after walking home from a party, I was getting to where I couldn't type anymore so I crashed and tried to finish it a day or so later. I realized I just couldn't get back into after about more lines in cause I was to sober. This weekend I was fucked up beyond belif and set to. The basic idea was to have no real context or frame just where my mind went.
i'll dry to doit when sober\
i give u a drunken rambi\\
walking in the full moon
the light
the midnight sun
the marble you just can’t seem to get to
too drunk
too real
and reflecting
there’s nothing worse then a drunk poet
strutting, stumbling, caressing the streets
spouting his foul moment into the air
wishing for a microphone a pencil or a keyboard
this was me
a 12:30 walk home or maybe it was after one
the moon nigh and the thoughts slow, complex and unending
fuck the walking sleep
falling to new scenes that midnight cannot touch
the sea dark and infinite as earth calls can get
draining to that summer wave voice
the fields enter the fallow season
dreams and thoughts like concrete, fractal, and repeating down that dark spiral
the lovely blue of a silent sideways scream
the dark closing and obscene thoughts on abortion
has there ever been a better argument for pro-choice then the precious forgotten lives of addicts and whores
and other stuttered half moments shouted at a street post audience
near tears from the pain of a spinning world, screaming inner voices, a rolling gut, and a little bit of truth
a plateau of silence, and smiles lifts from the inner muck
I just had an orgasm cause I’m half way home
it’s in that moment of safe drunken happiness
where for just for moment you a little kid showing mommy “look here I can tie my shoes”
it when the worlds stopped spinning and you can stand up straight when the streetlamps, traffic signals and porch lights don’t hurt anymore
when your beginning to think I’m going to get through this psychologically intact
you feel a hand reach around pull your hair back, your looking in your own grinning eyes, Id has come to say hello.
seven blocks left an now you’ve got a Me hard
walking, listing searching the sidewalk trying to keep yourself in check
your passion for the moment is decided
rest this evil bastard to dreams
rest this these thoughts
please god let us get home before the voices take control
rolling through suicide hills and each step a nightmare
angry weird faces waiting in each alley, vocal thoughts of mother in each crack, and each street is screaming father hood need, I contemplate the picketers.
sign post soldiers, walking in feel good circles, walking to beat dead horses
walking to get one step closer to that sixth block
walking to bed, home, and conduit
walking to feed the need
walking to drift
walking cause it’s the only thing to do at 2:am’s doorstep and you’re to drunk to ring the bell
feeling that fifth block, the local taco shop next door cutch in site, forgetting the already dependent nature of the weekend
the fourth block is all insane fucked up calls form whispering voices
fucked up memories from days past
fucked up dreams to come
third block whispers lovers lament’s
cold sidewalk shoulder
street sign “no parking here between the hours of” smirk
new saloon feel
Dracula’s hunting ground
second block is rain
coming down black and aftershock
emotional fallout coating cars, your nearly home (I) the clowns to far behind and the elephants seem to be strolling other streets
your block keys prematurely in hand.
motherhood guilt is about to lay a check on your ass
=apologies to god, mother, simi-kinown father seem to make it right
till the dark come to remind you of the contract you’re my bitch hood
block one the home stretch of please don’t bust me MR. Officer I swear she was 18
the keys WAITING
THE PEN DRIPPING
AND THE PENCIL BEGGING TO BE BROKEN
THE MIDGNIGHT LIFE
THE DRUNCKEN WALK
THE TYPICAL SOCAL BUDDHA RESPONSE
*edit and explanation. I changed one word an made a few spelling corrections. I wrote this in three parts. The first say third after walking home from a party, I was getting to where I couldn't type anymore so I crashed and tried to finish it a day or so later. I realized I just couldn't get back into after about more lines in cause I was to sober. This weekend I was fucked up beyond belif and set to. The basic idea was to have no real context or frame just where my mind went.
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