"We Were Emergencies", Buddy Wakefield
A poet can stick anything into the fog and make it look like a ghost. But tonight let us not become tragedies. We are not funeral homes with propane tanks in our windows lookin’ like cemeteries. Cemeteries are just the Earth’s way of not letting go. Let go. Tonight, Poets, let’s turn our wrists so far backwards the razor blades in our pencil tips can’t get a good angle on all that beauty inside....
Anonymous asked: can you tell us about him?
Anonymous asked: are you still with your boyfriend?
callifone asked: if you're so tired why don't you just go to sleep
nibbling: His twitch. His gaptooth. His meathook hands. His whiskey. His cocaine. His lie. His momma. His lie. His girl. His lie. His lie. His mask. His blame. His finger-point. His backstab. His loyal. His game. His drunk. His spill. His fool. His freeload. His pass-out. His breath. His dirt socks. His hole jeans. His unlaced laces. His laundry but never a thank you....
lonehands: On Your Porch by The Format
harrytomlomsom: a nightclub called The Mullet where you have to walk through an office to get to the bar