(profanity alert)

do your dreams play better in colour?

you may never make it to Oz, be left

in the dirty sepia hollow of your streets that bled

their hue & rye into the gutter

when your ankles drowned in

silk and nylon and the alleys breathed your

living tears did you lose more than I ever found?

what do you think you shall leave?

the weight of your footfall upon this earth cast

solid in a memory of something

more sound than fury?

are you really ever awake?

or do you simply roll from one more ctrl alt delete

of haphazard sleep into the habitual?

does Bukowski taste better with bourbon?

yes it does motherfucker

and I’ll shoot your balls off if you beg to differ