grapefruit moon

tom waits, 
for no one.
his voice, an angry mess of
sex and alcohol
brown-beaten by the nostalgic sun
and he croons to me
chasing winter into summer

my thoughts bluster

the heat is welcome.
i’ve been cold for so long
i’ve forgotten the taste of
freedom and spice
and everything nice,
i used to write poetry, 
i think

i’ve ran too far away now,
been running for so many years
it’s hard to stop.

i’ve forgotten. 

i want to go back to burma shave
and be all angry words and magic
like i was at seventeen
when love was a four letter word
equivalent to FUCK and coffee was
nectar of the gods
and beer his sexy older sister. 
i want to write poetry again,
not satire. 

because the only vices i’m exposing?
myself.

oh, to be expunged.

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