the point, of you which you questioned

what’s the point of asking directions, you didn’t bother to ask yourself?
you’ve met your generation, tasted their food, drank their wine, loved their women
read their books
listened to their music
momentarily lapsed into a fit of stupidity of thinking you were one of them


what is the point when you’re better then your generation
when your eyes stay open despite barbiturates molassing your brain and your heart hears songs your sisters have yet to learn to sing?


maybe you give in for a time, shed a couple of dirty old rhymes, not like their going to be used for anything good, so why not peddle them away?
something went missin’, like car keys in a North Dakota rain, or maybe it was Utah and instead of rain it was to snow drifts of coke
You lost it.

The ability to lie.
Oh no pinocchio! You counted on that schnoz, to give you a tripod if you ever fell forward towards grace, but the nose didn’t discharge, and flat on your face you came to a very horizontal dirty state of viewing what your feet have stood in

still your breathe.
just a mild shock.
truth is an eternity of metaphors.
and you
are level with the points
you’ve neglected on the floor


~ by ambur on November 10, 2011.

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