Sublime

“Do you think you might put us in a book sometime?” “I put everything that happens to me in books.”

Je suis rentré dans un bar et j'ai demandé une tequila parce que les effets sont rapides et j'avais besoin d'un coup de fouet. J'ai toujours pensé que la fin des beaux jours était quelque chose de difficile à avaler, j'ai redemandé un autre verre, ensuite je me suis senti mieux. Il y avait un type à côté

in drunken scorn or cynical despair.

Bukowski once wrote, “We’re all going to die, all of us. What a circus! That alone should make us love each other, but it doesn’t. We are terrorized and flattened by life’s trivialities; we are eaten up by nothing.”

On life and death this old man walked.

Something was wrong, everything was wrong. I went for a walk through the streets. My God, here I was again, roaming the town. I looked at the faces around me, and I knew mine was like theirs. Faces with the blood drained away, tight faces, worried, lost. Faces like flowers torn from their roots and stuffed into a pretty vase, the colors draining fa

a poem is a personal, individual experience.