untitled
phantoms and rain
bleeding from southern
disquieted
skies
young sad luck girls
w/in cocaine dawn'd
lies
seven bridesmaids smoking
to resolve all our
whys
and they pranced
round the
moon
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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