awful poetry…

the one’s that are gone

last thoughts before more black ball poetry,
or maybe just driving around looking for a familiar sight.

clips and fragments,
fucking pictures; fucking pictures;
I don’t want to see any of these pictures, or the faces.
I don’t know any of these people, and they don’t know me.

Biographies on bumper stickers, cold comfort hello,
goodbye, let the years roll on,
how you been,
married maybe, you got kids?

i almost did,
but i had an angel on my shoulder.

more forgotten faces, some of them staring back.
that feeling like the last first kiss,
so sweet and hazy under a cloudy
that might have been just like this

old folks now, long gone,
gone off to wherever you people go
when i leave the village.

it’s insomnia swell, 2 hour naps
with the lights on
and the music all the way up

i was going to play that song you
used to like, way way back
but masochism has limits,
and i don’t know any of these people

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