deepundergroundpoetry.com
Spent Moment
Spent Moment
"I quit," I mutter to a friend I should be sitting with
at the bottom of a staircase, lighting up a cigarette that
could be hanging out of my mouth,
slumped shoulders,
angel of choking and smoldering ashes.
"I quit poetry," I say, stoking my
dreamed-up, cheapened-down peace pipe.
"I'll swish and spit once more into poetry's
fish bowl, then quit
again."
(Actually never quite quit it, though I've had those down times, probably like everyone else.)
"I quit," I mutter to a friend I should be sitting with
at the bottom of a staircase, lighting up a cigarette that
could be hanging out of my mouth,
slumped shoulders,
angel of choking and smoldering ashes.
"I quit poetry," I say, stoking my
dreamed-up, cheapened-down peace pipe.
"I'll swish and spit once more into poetry's
fish bowl, then quit
again."
(Actually never quite quit it, though I've had those down times, probably like everyone else.)
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