porches of gold
in a city w/
platinum houses
and porches
of gold
it rains
champagne while diamonds
quietly grow on
the grape vine
in a city where
raven haired
women look
w/ knowing
eyes
ancient
and
new
We need a Celine/Miller/Kerouac/Bukowski/type for this time and place. I've chosen myself for the job. What did the man say? No guts no glory? So writing poems from the gut will do. And my star is rising...
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