THIS IS A POEM ABOUT BASTARDS 6.7.17

6.7.17

i want to be where the Bastards are

where triviality is an accepted

form of life, and we do nothing

but slowly destroy ourselves,

i see it,

sitting in a cool dark room

with a fireplace and a single

window showing the view

of snowfall on a lonely

town, a drink in my right hand,

and me and several other silent

dark faces staring mesmerized

at the astonishing world,

of which we are a part,

from which we are annexed.

i take a drink. the liquor

warms my soul. my forehead

touches the cool windowglass and

the world drifts out of focus

as i dream of the exact place i’m in,

just me and my Bastards,

and the warmth of fire and liquor,

and the lovely sound of falling snow.


Written at 11:56 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA. 

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