I never should have
listened to Hemingway
The old man said to write while drunk,
Edit sober.
But he must have held his liquor better than me,
I’m drunk.
He drank while he edited, I’m sure,
He was a master drunkard:
Why let writing get in the way of his true art?
Fuck me, I’m rambling again.
Ramblings a lost art, you know?
I’m a romantic for thinking so…
But seriously, we’re a lost generation of
Soul-searching addicts.
We bask in the moonlight of our own naivety,
Remember: the true art is not knowing anything
At all.
That’s the promise, that’s the lie
Man, I need a drink.
Do I seem a bit preoccupied?
Sorry I’m a master of multi-tasking,
A jack of no trades, so to speak.
Mumbling with a bottle of wine and
A girl texting me but
She isn’t here,
Which makes the drinking easier and
The thinking
cheap.
About the only thing cheap in this
Inflation of dreams.
It’s not an American thing, it’s
Bigger than that.
My bucks gone to shit and my drinks
Are less than they used to be
My pitchers are smaller, my
hopes – shit, hops – as well.
Freudian slip,
What a dick, exposing us all
like that.
Couldn’t accept that we say things
we don’t mean.
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