He sat, legs out-stretched;
his drink, known as Hangman’s Blood…
he wore exhaustion…
“I’m a Jarhead, Babe…”
blue diamond eyes, a match strikes;
“Of course I still smoke…”
sports bright twinkly stars,
eyes: adorned by shrapnel scars…
lives for deployment…
he carries no clue;
beyond decorative brass…
that he is adored…
A career Tank-Gun;
my first Love, look at you now…
I see fire in you.
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poetry for the soul
Writing should be honest, heart-breaking, and maybe a little offensive.
recovering from despair
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Class A stuff, could have gone all heavy but manages to play the content nice
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Nice, as always.
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…and when I say “nice,” it isn’t like your grandmother saying “that’s nice dear,” or some douchebag being ironic, hear it like “niccccccceeeee” all drawn out, like you just showed up at the ice cream shop parking lot to show off your new-to-you vintage camaro with the big V8 and t-tops.
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And just to be clear, I’d have sold my little sister off to some Columbian slave traders for a car like this back when I was 12. (And this is why I should stay off WP when by BAC is .about .25
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😀
Nice!
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Nice!
In my ice cream parlor scenario I’m showing off a Chevy though…maybe a ’65 super sport Impala…or an Apache wood panel bed truck….but yeah…nice!
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Reblogged this on Beasts of Articulation.
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