Glowering Junkies

A glowering beat junkie
shuffles frayed hems over avenue
I, propped up preened,
through the door he trips,
to find a pew
All this, I watch with a dour view

Down in a beanery where souls are served
coffee with a shot consciousness,
who nibble on curated cakes of turd

Awaiting liberation from these surroundings
It’s a cacophony of diatribe, cackles,
Disenfranchised, dim-witted opining.
quarter time of a song I’d sing to myself
if this woman before me would just
stop talking
over the music in my headphones;
she’s talking to me from a bag of bones

You resemble my brother at Microsoft.”
I asked, “well, is that good?”
And then she asks if I too work at Microsoft –
I detach one earplug, and spit at her feet,
“I can’t imagine why I would.”

Crazy. We, those, who dare to thrive
like dew clung to a thin thread of spider silk;
and how we slide
down, in a moment, a little more
when the breeze of our prey,
quivers the chord

My deeper thoughts ride out
on the tip of a swordfish
dipped in fine finned fears;
from the undercurrents of this vicious tide,
to throttle the banshee that screams with eyes
filled with crystal tears,
that fall into my coffee mug
and sweeten the slake
of our bitter drug.

tis nothing if not heardEmail this to someoneTweet about this on TwitterShare on Facebook0Print this pageShare on Google+0