waiting for a call….

turning poetry to porn…

flesh in an instant…

proclivities punctuated…exposed….

nothing clandestine….

romance….

no longer do we turn to Whitman…Leaves of Grass thrown out into compost….

tired…worn from the obvious…

plasticity…

injected with what…

generations in search of personality…settling for craft pints an’ small plates….

i hope there’s always jazz…piano trios at 3 in the morn…

coffee…cream…a buxom blonde who smokes…

i don’t ask much….

empty bookshelves…

turning poetry to porn…

waiting for a call….

 

 

Published by:

dmseay

The writing is based on my surroundings and what I've been surrounded by. This language is coarse and politically incorrect; which I make no apologies for. These characters are not nice and to use any other dialogue would be disingenuine. That being said, I choose to roll the dice. dm seay

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